


Cross Your Fingers

by starclipped



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Deaths, Comic Spoilers, Daryl-Centric, Developing Relationship, Feelings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Glenn Rhee Lives, Kissing, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Team Family, abraham is still important, cute stuff and thangs, mild child birth, sappy happiness, up to 6x16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 204,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8819680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped
Summary: Daryl finds himself wrapping his fingers around Paul’s wrist before a bandage can be pulled from the tattered box. And Paul peers at him when their skin touches, fierce eye to fierce eye, with… with such veneration. Daryl wouldn’t know that feeling if he saw it, he thinks he’s seeing it now and he can’t believe it, but he can sure as hell feel it; rolling off his hippie ninja in waves, seeping into Daryl’s soul. A gasoline soaked rag, simply waiting to be set aflame. That's what he's become. He swallows the foreign emotions that suddenly make him feel too big for his body.





	1. I Can Feel Your Pain

**Author's Note:**

> "Well, I watched your black-tied family  
> rise up from graves near cemeteries  
> that I have not been to since your goodbye  
> And I drank another simile and compared your Jesus to a thief  
> and he took my bones and he turned them into bread  
> 'Cause I can feel your pain in my bones, in my bones..."
> 
> (I can feel your pain | manchester orchestra) 

* * *

 

_"You ever think about it? Settling down?"_

_"You think shit's settled?"_

* * *

 

He hadn't thought about it, really, not when Abraham had first asked. Outside of wondering: is this a good place for Carl and Lil Asskicker, can Rick get some peace of mind, can Carol take a breather? Alexandria was the place for all of that, its walls going through test after test and still holding, its people still roaming livelier than the dead on the other side would suggest. _This_  was the place he imagined Maggie and Glenn had been envisioning when the idea for a baby first crept into their heads, and they had that now.

But there were still supply runs to make, still critters to hunt, still people to look after and look for... He was outside the walls more than anyone else, with the exception of maybe Aaron, and when he was inside he never asked himself _"can I settle here?"_  He'd stopped that shit after the prison turned out to be just another pit-stop. But here, now, after everything... _"You ever think about it? Settling down?"_  was the one question he couldn't  _ _stop__ thinking about.

* * *

 

Everything had went balls up the second Negan stepped out of the RV, all calm swagger and glinting teeth in the moonlight. Yeah, he'd gotten shot by Dwight and taken alongside Glenn, Michonne, and Rosita, but that would have been okay in the grand scheme of things. They would have escaped eventually, as long as Rick and Maggie and Carol and everyone else he cared for was still alright. But Daryl should have learned by now… nothing would ever be  _still alright._

He'd gotten all of them, lined them up on their knees for an impromptu execution. He toyed with them first, of course, working his way inside Rick's head, basking in the heavy blanket of fear slowly smothering all of them. And Daryl had never seen Rick so scared; not at the farm or the prison or in that freight car with a bunch of cannibals surrounding them, not even with the Claimers or the Wolves or at the compound with what would turn out to be just a few of those piece of shit Saviors that wouldn’t even dent the army they had around them now. Nah, Rick was looking at Negan like another one of his world's was about to end. Because it was.

Carl and Michonne were in the line, at opposite ends, two of the three people that made Rick's heart softer, made him love harder and dream bigger; Glenn, who'd been with them both since practically the beginning, who had saved Rick's life and accepted Daryl again and again when he hadn’t deserved it; Maggie, the hope and head and the only remaining reminder of what Hershel stood for and what he meant to all of them, the things she could do if she only stayed having that chance. Daryl was in the line, too, and Rick's voice calling him his brother flashed through his muddled brain, the trust and compassion he'd been shown by a man he'd probably be running from if the world hadn't let the dead start walking. He could see all of the rest without looking: Abraham, Rosita, Eugene, Sasha, Aaron... They'd all been through so fucking much together, so fucking much  _ _apart,__ they didn't deserve an end like this. He could only thank God and Jesus -- _but not the hippie Hilltop prick_  -- that Carol wasn't here, that she didn't have to see this or be on the chopping block along with everyone she cared for. He hoped she was safe, that she'd stay safe once whoever was left got back, if they ever did.

****Eenie. Meenie. Miney. Moe.** **

If the bat in his face was an image he'd never forget, the first hit and crack would be seared into his brain for however long he remained alive.

_"You ever think about  it?  Settling down?"_

Daryl could see through his fuzzy, tear-blocked eyes that Sasha  _had _,__  that she’d thought long and hard, maybe even dared to _dream_ about it. Even after Bob and Tyreese, Abraham had given her a new hope for the future... And Negan had just snuffed it out with a baseball bat and a barbed wire strand. He knew what memory popped up when he thought of Beth, of Dale and Andrea and Lori and Tyreese, of Sophia and Merle, fuckin’  _Merle._.. He knew what memory would pop up when he thought of Abraham from here on out, and Daryl wondered what Sasha would see when she closed _her_ eyes, when his name passed through her thoughts and all she had left to look at were the handful of things he'd left behind. What would she remember? What would Rosita? What would Eugene and Glenn and Maggie?

Maybe it didn't even matter anymore.

_“Oh!_  Look at that. Takin’ like a champ!”

“Suck… my… _nuts _…__ ”

The screams were deafening and he couldn't make out who they belonged to; Maggie out of grief, Glenn out of fear, Rick trying to plead and beg even though he knew it was too late. He could see Rosita crumple into herself, Eugene following after like he was connected to her by a string, and Sasha's mouth was wide open but he knew no sound would squeeze its way out. She was alone again, just like that. It was a shitty thought in a shitty time, but Daryl didn't know if she would make it now. Shit, he didn't even know if _he_  would.

_If this is the next world, I hope it’s good to you guys._

_No,_ he thinks to himself, _it isn’t._

* * *

 

He's being pulled up by the arm again before he knows it, by that spineless son of a bitch Dwight. He wants to bite the bastard’s ear off, make another chain with his dead in the center, cut out his eye for Denise. _An eye for an eye;_  he wonders if _Jesus_  would like the sound of that. He can’t bring himself to care.

Daryl’s gaze stays glued to the bloodied, smashed corpse of Abraham, then strays to the wide-eyed terror of Rick. This might be the only goodbye they’ll get, staring at each other like animals in opposite cages. It’s better than some, he knows.

"Don't -- you don't need him -- he's hurt--"

_Stop this!_

_His_  crossbow, pointed at his back, jabs bruising into his skin, forcing him into the empty space of the van once more. Negan says something to Rick -- to everyone -- but Daryl can't make it out. Maggie’s sobs is the last thing he hears. And when his eyes slip closed, he sees _red_.

* * *

 

Daryl thinks he'll probably die. He’s going to die eventually, everyone is, but this moment seems promising. He feels like a pig at slaughter, boxed up and squealing until someone takes mercy on his bastard soul and ends it all. He can't keep his eyes open and his teeth might even be chattering, and he's gonna die in the back of a truck, all alone, with the faces of all the people he’s failed flashing behind his eyelids.

He thought they could do this. Rick had said they could, and Daryl _believed_  it. He believed it more than he'd believed in anything before, and that's what got them here. His bravado bolstering the rest, giving Abraham reason to believe they could take down an army when the only thing he needed to believe in was a future for him and Sasha. Daryl had told that hippie prick they'd take Negan out and he hadn't done a __da__ _ _m__ _ _n__  thing to dissuade him otherwise, just let Rick make the call, let him lead his family into the snare.

But no, __this__  wasn't his fault. Daryl couldn't blame him, not now, no matter how much he wanted to. It wasn't that asshole's fault that Daryl had run off on his own for some damn revenge mission that wouldn't make him feel better anyway, that he got Glenn and Michonne and Rosita tangled up in it even deeper. This was on _him_  and it always would be. Just like Beth, just like Denise, just like...

* * *

 

Dragged out, falling to his knees, searing pain lighting up his left side like a pin cushion. Voices are garbled, vision foggy. He can't track his own movements.

There's a bright light and more pain. Laughter, but not close. Murmuring... His body alights with fire and a sudden strange fear of death takes hold, makes him kick and scream; both are only an attempt. He shakes instead, a pathetic whimper probably giving whoever's touching him a deep satisfaction. He can't go down that hole, can't think about the other times he's whined and cried, can't think about why or who made him. 

He steels himself and opens his eyes, the haze and brightness of the room blinding him. He can barely make out the man hunched over him, scissors in hand. The guy catches his eye for only a moment and then tucks his head back down, but Daryl could see the burns there, like the ones shithead Dwight had on his own face. Briefly, he wonders if he would be marked, too. One more scar to add to the list. 

When his eyes slip shut again, they stay that was for a long time.

* * *

 

Daryl had once told Rick that if things had been different, he would have wound up in jail just like the men they found when they'd first entered the prison. He would have been shackled, thrown away for some dumb shit Merle might have talked him into doing, and no one would have cared. Not his momma’s tortured soul, not Merle, not Rick, and not even Carol. He would have been like Oscar and Axel, and ended up worm food or a dead man walking. 

He probably always was.

* * *

 

They'd been living through hell on earth for over a year, but Sanctuary was the real Devil's lair.

People kneeled to Negan, gave up their wives and girls if he so much as talked sweet to them. They did what he said and if anyone questioned, they got hauled off to face whatever punishment was deemed worthy. Negan made an effort to seem fair, doling out points whenever it struck his fancy, and taking away just as many for reasons less clear. Daryl, the guest that he was, didn't have to work for points, didn't have to follow the flow of rules no one could forget. No, instead he got a dank, dark little cell and a jumpsuit that fell of his reddened shoulder and rode up his ass, swishing against his ankles as irritatingly as chains around his limbs. But if that weren’t bad enough, watching Dwight roam around all free and fine  _certainly_  was. He flounced around in Daryl's vest, toted Daryl's crossbow, and had the nerve to look away whenever Daryl tried to set the other half of his face on fire with his glare alone. The fucking coward. Daryl would beat his ass with his bare hands, or he would die trying.

And that was the thing; he  _ _was__  going to die here, in a shitty cell at Sanctuary, tormented by the two people left alive he hated most right now. It had been a fearful thought before, but it was starting to look more and more like a damn premonition.

* * *

 

They threw him in the truck again, with his grimy jumpsuit and a shiny new black eye for his troubles. It'd been several days since the clearing now; he hadn't been keeping a steady count, but whenever the concrete cell dropped in temperature, he knew another long night was ahead. Which meant the Saviors and Negan himself were going on a special field trip to Alexandria. Daryl didn't want to know what he would see when he got there, or what he  _wouldn't_ see.

The sunlight made his eyes water when his cage opened and he was yanked out once more. The light murmurings of Rick, who was kneeling and trying to talk sense into Negan, faded when his wide eyes landed on Daryl. _"Thank God,"_ he swore he heard Maggie whisper, but the momentary relief was swept up with the crawl of ice through his veins when he saw Glenn, as he stood protectively beside his wife.

__His face__. Half of it was badly burnt, just like Dwight's. Skin pinched and inflamed, wrinkled. It made the meager contents of Daryl's stomach want to spew from his throat. What lesson had Negan tried to teach him? What had he been punished for? Glenn was stubborn and squirrelly... Daryl didn't want to know what he’d done to piss Negan off, he just hoped the kid kept his damn head down or else he'd lose his life.

"Well, I _must_  thank you for such a warm welcome," Negan says boisterously, a smirk firmly in place as if the men scattered around Alexandria weren't pointing guns and bats at anyone who dared to do otherwise. "You can get up now, all of you. In fact, why don't you come on over here, _Rick_. And bring that kid of yours."

Daryl could see Rick's jaw clench. When their eyes met in the afternoon light, Daryl willed Rick not to pull any dumb shit. Not right now.  _Don't give the bastard the satisfaction._

It only took him a hesitant moment to stand and grab Carl gently, leading both of their unwilling bodies towards Negan. He cocked his head, grin spreading into something far too amused when Rick flinched at the swing of his bat.

"Hold her, won't you? An honor among friends. And we are friends, aren't we, Rick?"

He held the barbed wire bat -- _Lucille_ , he’d called it -- out to Rick, waiting with patience and a feral gleam in his dark eyes. Daryl kept his vision on Rick, watched his brother reach out and grasp the weapon that could end any one of them without a moment's notice. Negan hummed when the bat left his grip, chuckling when Rick held it to his side.

"She doesn't like it that way, Rick. On your shoulder she goes. I don't think _any_ of us wanna see what happens if you can't handle my gal the right way."

Daryl almost snorted. He was dammed certain Negan was waiting for any sort of reason to teach someone new a lesson. He hears that asshole  _ _Jesus__  in his head, telling them how Negan showed up and killed a 16 year old kid for no reason other than to show his dominance, like he was pissing on a hydrant instead of taking someone's life.

They should have taken it more seriously. They _should_ have --

_You thought you were safe, I get it. But the word is out. You are not safe, not even close. In fact, you are pegged..._

Yeah, they all were now. And there was no escape in sight.

Daryl looks down to his feet, scraggly hair covering his bruised face, and Rick carefully perches the weapon atop his shoulder.

* * *

 

They didn't let him stay at Alexandria. He's not as surprised as some of the people he’d left behind, but he can’t pretend he isn’t disappointed, isn’t _scared._

Negan wanted _more_  than half of what they’d gathered, a trade for Daryl, but they barely had enough after the taking as it was and Rick couldn't spare more. He had so many people to still look after, even if some of them no longer revered his word. He couldn't put them in jeopardy again, not even for Daryl. The broken gaze Rick had set on him sent a wave of emotion rolling through his chest.

He could hear Maggie start to cry when they loaded him back into the truck, shackles clanging against his cage. Her emotions were fucked six ways from Sunday and he hoped that meant the baby was the driving force behind it, that there would still  _be_ a baby. He didn't even get the chance to ask.

And Daryl wonders what Carol would do, if she were here. If he would be able to find strength in her steely, knowing gaze. If she would dare to hug him, whisper in his ear that they’d get through this like they have _everything_  else. Wherever she was, he hoped it was far away from this shit-show and that she was happy. 

Maybe that was foolish, but he had nothing else to cling to.

* * *

 

The beatings didn't happen routinely, but they were too often to be some kind of real punishment. He never had the time or the luxury to do anything dumb, so the fists and boots banging against him from Simon and his little sewing-circle weren't so much a 'precaution’ as they were something done for pure amusement. It was reflexive to fight back, which made things _worse_ , but hearing one of those sons a bitches yell out in pain was enough to keep his spirit going through the nights.

And there were a lot of them. _Nights _.__ Daryl thought about the time he'd wondered into the woods as a kid and gotten lost for over a week. No one had known he was gone, no one had cared. He’d found his own way home, made himself a sandwich while his dad snored drunkenly in front of their broken set of rabbit ears. But most importantly, _no one_  had even come looking. No one had come to save him. 

And no one was going to save him now. That's just the way it was. He didn't blame anyone for it, didn't want his family getting fucked up further just to  _ _try__  and rescue his dumb ass. But the _pain_  of the thought was worse than all the throbbing cuts and bruises his body was growing more acquainted with.

He fell asleep against the concrete floor with blood caked to his nose, lips, and hands, and a bucket full of Simon's piss in the corner.

 

Daryl rarely dreamed of much before the world went further down the shitter. Asleep or awake, his aspirations didn't stray beyond wanting something in the here and now: a smoke, a drink, a night's rest that didn't involve listening to Merle bellow his way through various sordid activities, some far worse than others. When he wanted to hunt or track, he picked up his bow and knife and got his ass into the woods. When he wanted a quick buck, he'd go down to the shop that one of Merle's buddies owned and got his skin stained with grease. He didn't make plans for the future, didn't go grocery shopping on a Wednesday or laundering on a Saturday like he imagined Rick and Carol probably had.

He had no aspirations, no curious thoughts for his mind to spin deep in the night while he slept with an ear out and an eye open way before worries of the dead breaking down the door had any place inside his brain. Daryl didn't dream, not even now, but he _did_  have nightmares. And those... Well, those were some other beast entirely.

It's real, a damn dream come true in the worst possible way. It's not only Abraham in his head; no, that's the start. He sees Glenn get the bat, hears Maggie screaming and crying before she gets it, too. Rosita, frozen to the world, shifting into a puddle of red against the dirt; Sasha, lying down, dead before the first strike; Aaron, his eyes closed and his hands out like he's praying to the sky, only one word on his lips when the crack strikes his forehead; Eugene, his whimpers ground into dust. He hears Rick sobbing when Michonne comes next, hears him screaming when it's Carl. He hears nothing when it's him. 

There are so many faces to meet in the dark, so many miserable reunions. Sasha and Tyreese, the people they were with at the prison, that man and his wife and boy; Beth and Maggie and Hershel and Glenn, with Otis and Patricia and Jimmy and Maggie's moms, her brother, and shadowy figures that must be Glenn's family, the ones he never talks about, as if saying their names would make the memories reality; Michonne with whoever she left behind, the baby he never heard she had but _knew_  she did, Lori and Carl, Andrea with Amy and Dale and Jim, T-dog and Jacqui and that bullshit doctor who _opted out _.__  Shane. Sophia...so scared and alone, neck torn open and eyes flickering back to life. Denise, staring dead-eyed, the name of her brother clutched in her hand.

His mom, burned to a crisp, cigarette stuck between her bony fingers. His father, face green and eyes red, belt at the ready and breath like whiskey fire. And then there was Merle.

His face is as he remembers, not bloodied with guts and caved in by Daryl's knife. His sneer is present, but the shine in his eyes is not mischievous or hateful, not even solemn.

"Well, baby brother. You fucked up good now, didn't ya? You an’ ol’ Officer Friendly." His chuckle is as deep as the grave Daryl had lowered him into. "But don't you worry, Darlyna. It ain't your time yet, ain't ever."

The darkness shifts, beams of light cutting through, boxing out the ones he's lost, the ones he might still lose, until only Merle stands. His big brother.

And through the light, a shape emerges. A person. Slight, lean. Covered head to toe even in the southern heat. The figure is staring at him with piercing eyes, a faded blue light glowing in his sockets. Long hair blown in the wind, head covered with a woolen hat, body wrapped up in a dusty trench coat. His beard is hidden behind a do-rag, knives adorning his belt. He stands behind Merle, casting a warm shadow over the empty space as his brother speaks again, voice echoing.

"Now you wake up, ya hear? Quit being a pussy, boy. I raised you better than this! Rise and shine!  _Wake up._ "

Daryl.

_Daryl?_

“Daryl, wake up!”

Jesus is staring down at him, big eyes bluer than the fucking sky above. His head is bent so far down that strands of hair tickle Daryl’s face, curtains of brown hiding him from the world’s evil eye. His gaze is liquid comfort, but the creases on his face show a heavy weight.

Daryl had never been religious. He’d always done what his momma told him -- never sin on a Sunday, say the Lord’s prayer before the Christmas ham, _keep your sweet heart good_ \-- but he’d stopped hearing those words once she started crying harder and sleeping longer. And once she was gone, he’d had no reason to believe she knew what the hell she was talking about. It only got worse when Merle left him and the beatings shifted to his own lanky body, and Daryl came to find there was __nothing__  bigger in the world. No matter what Hershel or Maggie thought, or even Merle in the end, there was no divine intervention, and certainly _not_  for Daryl Dixon.

But there he was, being stared at by the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost all in one, and he had no clue what to think anymore. Only that… well, JC looked a lot like that hippie prick from Hilltop. Guess he had reason to go around calling himself --

_“Jesus?”_

The concern in and around those big eyes softens, and a gloved hand comes up to yank the black cloth from his face. The two of them sway, jostling over some kind of bump. Were they traveling?

_“Shit,”_ he spits out. His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, tastes like he’s been sucking on a penny. “I ain’t dead?”

“No,” Jesus -- _that little shit_  -- breathes. He drops back away from Daryl, pressing himself against something that looks like a seat. They jerk again. “But to be honest, I wasn’t exactly sure when I carried you out.”

_“Carried?”_  he growls. “Bullshit.” The fire behind his curse is lost to the throbbing of his head. His eyelids slam closed.

“You’re heavier than you look, I’ll give you that. Sorry about your head.”

Daryl opens one eye a crack and lets it linger on the man before him. That serene expression is too much for him and he scowls, deciding against asking what the asshole had done to him. Probably nothing worse then what he’d gone through already.

“What the hell happened?”

Hippie Prick puts his hand up and turns to face the front of the stripped-out truck they were bouncing around in.

“We should stop here and walk the rest of the way. They might know the vehicle and the tire tracks are too noticeable.”

Daryl tries to sit up and gets a wide-eyed look from Hippie Prick once more.

“Who’s the shitty driver?” he grits out.

To answer his question, the woman in front turns halfway around, showing her dirtied face.

__Tara._ _

“Hi,” she says weakly, a tired smile tugging at her lips. It doesn’t quite make it anywhere else. “Glad you’re not dead.”

His throat dries up, seeing her face… thinking about Denise. Did she know? He should have been the one to tell her, he _should _\--__

"Yeah. You, too.”

She steers the car into a wooded area, jostling almost as badly as Hippie Prick and himself in the back. He winces.

“To answer your question,” Prick begins again, “a hell of a lot.”

Daryl snorts at that, regretting it when a spot above his left eye throbs with pain.

“No shit.”

“I got together with some of your friends, and with Dwight’s help--”

His ears perk and burn at the sound of that name. “The _hell_ you say?”

“-- we managed a distraction. Rick, Michonne, and Rosita hit the walls. I followed, slipped in and grabbed you with Dwight. I got you far enough away for Tara to pick us up. Look, I’ll explain more later, but we’re sitting ducks right now and I’m sure you know, the Saviors are pretty fond of hunting.”

Daryl tries to sit himself up once more and pain shoots through his leg. Gritting his teeth, he takes a breath through his nose.

Rick, Michonne, and Rosita… putting themselves at risk, knocking on Negan’s door with guns and knives, trying to get Daryl back. Tara, too. And Hell, even _Jesus _.__ He couldn’t deny that.

Someone had come looking for him. Someone had saved him _ _.__ What the hell kind of _next world_  was this?

Daryl looks at the little shit hovering in front of him, the concern etched around his eyes making a return. Daryl can’t help but glare.

“Who’s dumb idea’s this anyway?” he sniffles. “I coulda done it. Didn’t need no one puttin’ themselves out for me. Just needed more time, is all.” That was a bold-faced lie and he knew it; Tara knew it too, and so did Jesus. And staring at the man in question, Daryl didn’t quite know what to make of him.

He’d lifted Rick’s keys, lied to their faces, tricked them, drove off with __their__  truck-full of supplies. He’d fought, ninja’d his way on top of the damn moving vehicle, and then he’d _maybe_  helped Daryl by shooting that walker behind him. Only because he’d stolen Daryl’s gun, though. The idiot only carried knives and did some spin-kick shit that was reckless and unnecessary where walkers were concerned.

He’d snuck out of his room, took a stroll around Alexandria like he owned the place, nosed around and then broke into Rick’s house so they could __talk.__ But…he’d shown them his home base, tried to help deescalate the fights, wanted to start a trading deal, and even came along to give his help with the Negan ordeal at the satellite station. And now, he’d risked his ass to save Daryl’s when they knew shit-all about each other and meant even __less__.

He didn’t know what the hell this guy was thinking.

“You got a death wish or somethin’?”

Hippie Prick smiles wryly, but the tense expression doesn’t cease.

“If we stay here any longer, thenyeah, I’d say we all do. Now come on. Tara, can you help me?”

Daryl watches in confusion as Tara hops out of the truck and rushes around to open the dented doors, reaching for Daryl’s shoulders as Jesus reaches for his legs. He kicks one out in response, his foot connecting with Jesus’s arm.

“Keep your damn hands to yourself, _sunshine!_ I can walk just fine!”

Eyebrows raise at his claims.

“With a hole in your leg?”

He looks down, only now noticing the blood on the black leather of Asshole’s gloves, the same blood that’s stained the leg of his jumpsuit. When he looks down further, he sees a rag wrapped snugly around his thigh. Interestingly, his shackles are gone.

But he’d been shot… _again._ And Daryl was getting damned tired of being target practice for those assholes.

_“Daryl,”_ Tara hisses near his ear, voiced hushed and paranoid. She wants out of this as badly as he does.

Daryl moves his arms up and allows Tara to wrap hers around his chest. Jesus raises a questioning brow at him and when Daryl jerks his head as a show of compliance, his legs get picked up and cradled. Daryl tries not to struggle on instinct when the two force him out of the vehicle, tensing momentarily when he feels like Hippie Prick might drop his legs. But Jesus hops out of the truck with ease, landing with his knees bent and keeping Daryl’s from jostling too much when he rises back to his full height.

It’s when Jesus pries Daryl’s legs apart and slots himself up between Daryl’s thighs that he starts to protest on instinct.

“Hold up--”

He turns his back before Daryl can get any other argument out, pressing himself even closer into the V of Daryl’s legs and then gripping behind his knees to prop him up further.

“Where’d you park?” Jesus asks Tara.

Daryl tilts his head back enough to peer up at Tara, who looks troubled in her momentary distraction. It takes her expression a moment to clear, and then her mind a moment more before she answers.

“Uh… maybe a mile and a half? East.”

Jesus nods and starts the trek forward, slow at first, and then faster once he’s sure Tara can keep up. Daryl wants to know what has Tara so distracted, but doesn’t dare ask in case it’s about Denise. He can’t face that yet, not out in the open with Saviors breathing down their necks.

He doesn’t like being carried and he sure as hell doesn’t like being vulnerable, but the pain is starting to catch up with him now that he’s awake and that keeps him silent enough through the journey to whatever getaway car Tara has parked between the trees.

* * *

 

When they’re settled in the car -- Daryl laid out on the backseat with a blanket draped over him, Tara at the wheel and Jesus in the passenger seat, switching between looking out the window and twisting to look down at Daryl -- it starts to hit him that, even if they get knocked off the road and shot up or torn apart, he’ll at least know that he’d been rescued. That his people, and a damn stranger who calls himself Jesus, had cared enough to risk their asses for him.

His foot taps the passenger seat none-too-gently, causing Hippie Prick to turn once more and regard him with a questioning furrow of his brows. Daryl licks his sore, cut lips.

“Thanks… both a you.”

“It’s no problem,” Tara replies, trying her best to sound cheery. He appreciates the effort, but the words that _stick_  inside his mind are the ones that come from Jesus.

“Of course,” he says to Daryl, as if they would never have thought of doing anything __less__  than stealing him away from Negan and bringing him home.

_Of course._

* * *

 

Daryl doesn’t let Jesus and Tara carry him once the gates of Hilltop open. He staggers out of the car, face sour and bruised, and allows Tara to lend her shoulder to his arm as he hobbles to the Doc’s room. Jesus is, at first, not far behind, but even Daryl hears the call of Gregory and isn’t surprised when Hippie Prick vanishes to convene with the crusty old man they call their leader.

All is fine, though; he doesn’t need _another_  voice telling him all the different crap he should and shouldn’t do in order to heal up properly.

“First thing’s first: I don’t need a test to tell me you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Yeah. Got shot not too long ago. Didn’t get patched up for a while after.”

“And _again_  today,” Doctor Carson reminds him, expression pinched and tone disapproving.

“It ain’t by choice,” Daryl argues. Doctor Carson sighs.

“You’re lucky… Daryl, right? Your injuries aren’t as bad as they could be. Whoever patched up your shoulder did a pretty good job. It doesn’t look like it’s been dressed as often as it should be, however. And as for this one--” Carson taps Daryl’s thigh, making him tense, “-- your femur isn’t fractured. It doesn’t look like there are any bullet fragments, but I could try and take a deeper look--”

“You’ll make it worse. I’m _fine._ ”

“It’s true, but fragments can cause lead poisoning. You might even have some in your shoulder, I doubt whoever checked you out at Sanctuary went above and beyond. But it’s up to you. I’ll clean it for you, get it bandaged up, and I’ll redress the one on your shoulder. But after that, we’ll have to talk about possible symptoms of anemia.”

Daryl twitches on the table, straining to see Carson as he begins to clean the wound. Daryl grinds his teeth, but keeps his eyes on the reddening cloth instead of on Tara as she stares idly into space on a cot opposite him. “Do you know your blood type? Just in case we need a transfusion.”

“Umm…” He has to think back to the time he’d ended up in the hospital after Merle crashed their truck. His dumbass brother needed a transfusion then, but Merle was an O and Daryl… “B?”

“Positive?” Carson asks, cutting the leg of the jumpsuit further to check the bruising around the wound.

“Yeah.”

“I’m O positive,” Tara says, proving she hadn’t been completely lost within her thoughts. When Daryl looks up, she looks away, toying at the frayed edge of her pullover. “My sister, um, she used to do blood drives, sometimes. Plus, I thought it was important to know in case I ever actually ended up on the force. Extra prepared for the line of fire, right?”

“S’that what you really wanted to be? A cop?”

“Well… I dunno. I guess for a while. You know, thinking about what I used to want compared to what I want __now__  is actually pretty pointless.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s really dumb.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says again. It makes Tara stare at him with wide, curious eyes. And then she laughs. The sound is __real,__ loud and stuttering. Daryl can’t recall if he’s ever heard her sound like this before.

“The fact that you never sugar-coat things might put some people off, but it’s probably what I like about you most. You don’t bullshit. You say it like it is because __that’s__  the way it is. And you know what, I--”

“She’s gone,” Daryl blurts, interrupting Tara’s amusement. Her head tilts in confusion. He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but he can’t stop now. “Denise. She’s…”

“Daryl?”

“We-- we went out lookin’ for stuff she wanted. And we were headin’ back. She got all fired up ‘cause we thought she did somethin’ stupid, but--” His breaths come fast from his nose and he’s not aware of Carson anymore, if he’s even still kneeling by the cot or if he’d left the room entirely. And Daryl can’t look at Tara’s face, look at the heartbreak cracking over her features, without his voice cracking, too. “It wasn’t stupid. She was right. And it was my fault.”

“Don’t--”

“It was my bow. He shot her ‘cause of me--”

_“Don’t!”_ Her voice is strained and heavy. It cuts to his core. “Please… just don’t.”

He could tell her that Denise was talking about not wanting to be afraid, tell Tara that Denise __loved__  her. He could say they’ll get the fucker who did it, that he’d already been trying, that he’ll make it as right as he can. He could say __I’m sorry.__

He says none of it.

“You saved my ass back there. For what? Now you gotta go back and pretend you don’t wish you didn’t.”

“Are you serious?” The tears are evident in her voice even before he’s catches sight of her face. “Look me in the eye right now and tell me __you__  killed Denise. Can you do that, Daryl? _No_ , because you didn’t! And I helped save your ass back there because you would have done the same for any of us! Because you care so damn much that you can’t even hide it anymore!” Tara slides off the table and slips past Daryl, hesitating at the door. “I don’t need you blaming yourself for this, what I _need_  is your help. Especially after being out there, after -- I need shoulder to cry on, or I dunno-- just not a fucking pile of self-loathing horseshit, okay? But right now… I-- I need to go.”

He swallows hard when the door rattles the frame.

Daryl keeps his gaze down at his hands, tracing the inked star and the round burns with just his vision, and he can see the doctor step from behind a curtain on the other side of the room through his peripheral.

Daryl doesn’t move when Carson clears his throat, stepping closer. When he hesitates to wrap the wound, unsure of unwilling to ask Daryl to finally take the jumpsuit off, Daryl leans forward and rips the fabric from his leg in one angry pull. Neither of them speak, not until Carson elevates Daryl’s leg with pillows from the other cots.

_“Don’t_  move, alright? You need the elevation. Now, is there anyone you’re comfortable with? You’ll probably want to get cleaned up, so a sponge bath--”

_“Hell nah!”_ Daryl snarls, his turbulent emotions spiraling down into irritable anger. “I ain’t a damn baby! I can wash myself and I’ll do it when I damn well please.”

“Which would probably be never, if you had your say?”

The voice from the doorway startles him, furthering his irritation when he sees __Jesus__  leaning against the wall. He hadn’t even heard the door open or close. He shouldn’t be surprised.

“You got somethin’ you wanna say to me?”

Jesus tilts his head and Daryl can see the pinch between his brows, as if trying hard to solve a problem.

“Just that Gregory would like you to clean up as soon as possible.”

“What, he afraid to come tell me that himself?”

Daryl clenches his fist when the prick standing before him smiles, amusement catching his features like the slivers of sunlight from the drawn blinds.

“Probably,” Jesus answers. There’s a hint of mirth in his tone. “I figured he’d be the last face you’d want to see right now anyway.”

“Yours’s the last face I wanna see!” It’s a bit petulant, he can admit to himself, but he wants everyone to leave him the hell alone. In fact, he wants to hobble right through the gates and walk his crippled ass back to Alexandria. The only thing stopping him is the prospect of what Negan might do if he finds his __prisoner__  behind Rick’s walls.

“Alright, look--” the doctor begins, but Jesus raises a hand, palm out, gloved fingers splayed.

“It’s okay, Harlan.” There’s a sigh, although not one of defeat. “He’s just a little prickly, which is __understandable__  given everything he’s been through.” Switching his attention back to Daryl, Jesus drops his arm and gives him a once over. “I take it you’ll live?”

It’s not a real question, just a probe for Daryl to start talking. He doesn’t say a word.

“He’s lost a lot of blood from both wounds, but nothing seems to be infected yet. He’ll need antibiotics and lots of rest, some physical therapy when he feels up to it,” Carson rattles off, scampering off towards his cabinets to rifle through them. “We’ll need to watch for signs of anemia, but he seems alright on first inspection. I’ll sew him up now and then take a look at his shoulder.”

“Need any help?” Jesus offers. Daryl glares.

“I could use Alex--”

“He hasn’t returned yet,” Hippie Prick says softly. His expression is oddly schooled. Daryl squints in suspicion. But Doctor Carson doesn’t seem to notice or maybe he just doesn’t care.

“Alright, wash your hands and bring me the sutures. We’ll need to stitch him up after I give it a clean.”

Daryl watches Jesus like a vulture, keeping his narrowed eyes trained on the slender man as he pulls off his hat, gloves, and coat. His shirt sleeves are baggy and bunched up at the elbows, his dark vest belted, adorned with knives. The cargo pockets of his pants are bulged, its contents a secret. Daryl wonders if he keeps fire crackers on him at all times.

He tries to focus downward, at the doctor’s hands as they delicately press cloth around the wound. The bruising makes every touch and twitch tender, but he bites his tongue and doesn’t make noise. However, his attention continuously strays to the man hovering behind Carson. __Jesus__. He’s watching curiously at what the Doc is doing to Daryl’s leg, but more often than not he’s watching curiously __Daryl__  himself. It’s unnerving to have such attentive, clear eyes locked on him silently, trying to read and understand. Daryl shies away, uncomfortable with the attention.

He just wants this whole ordeal to be done and over with.

* * *

 

Being stuck at Hilltop is as easy as being stuck at Alexandria. Which is to say, it _isn’t._

Daryl feels like more of an outsider here, with all the people roaming around, smiling and doing nothing but farming and carrying on like their little bubble won’t ever pop. Being on the outside is nothing new to Daryl, he’s lived that way his whole life, but at least at Alexandria he had his __family.__ He could look at Rick and be put at ease by the man’s confidence. He could sit down with Carol and enjoy a quiet smoke. Here? Well, he has Tara -- _had_ , she never came around after he’d fucked up telling her about Denise.

Not to mention, he has the pest he still can’t shake off. Jesus.

The Hippie Prick had come around at the same time for the past three days that Daryl had been held up in bed. He’d bring food, news of Hilltop’s on-goings (as if Daryl __cared__ ), or random and oddly specific accounts of his past scouting missions. Daryl had to give it to the guy; he never mentioned the sunken supply truck they knew both groups could use now more than ever.

So the worst part wasn’t _Hilltop_  itself. It wasn’t even Gregory, who Daryl could see through the window, watching with shame for the old goat as he strutted around the community, flirting with women and proving he didn’t know shit about shit.

_He’s not the leader I would have chosen, but he helped make this place what it is. And the people like him._

Daryl didn’t know who was more full of it: Jesus or Gregory.

But that didn’t matter much to him, either. The real problem, the real itch he couldn’t scratch, was his new role as a burden.

Daryl had always tried to pull his own. At home, hunting with his dad or Merle if they didn’t have enough money to put food on the table; picking up odd jobs to buy his mom’s cigs while Merle took care of her oxy, and all the rest he made would go straight to his daddy’s booze. He stayed out of the house when he could and when he couldn’t, he dropped himself into his room and was careful not to make even his bed creak. When Merle joined the Marine’s, Daryl had tried his hand at a steady job, mostly to get out of the damn house, but the shop went down when the owner had been arrested for things that even Daryl didn’t join in on.

No matter how bad it got, Daryl made _sure_  he couldn’t be called a burden.

Here he was now, though, propped up in bed with pillows and blankets and dumb little picture books about the Jesus from Heaven that the Hippie Prick picked up from the floor to place back on the nightstand every time he came to visit. He’d smile about it, too, like it was so damned funny. Daryl wanted to wring his little neck.

He hated the chipping walls, the scratchy clothes that some lady had brought on request of Jesus, and he hated seeing faces he had no connection with. The only thing he actually liked was the food and he licked his plate clean whenever they gave him a meal. Which was probably far more often than Gregory would have liked, compliments of Jesus yet again. At least he had that going for him.

And Daryl could also admit, at least himself, that it was mildly amusing whenever he heard a knock on the infirmary door. Jesus was the only one to knock, like he was asking to enter Daryl’s personal quarters and not Carson’s medical trailer. Jesus respected privacy, and Daryl respected _that _.__

He was quietly debating with himself whether or not he should leave the bed and try and walk with the crutches Carson had given him earlier when he heard the gentle knock. Five seconds ticked by before it opened and Jesus took a step in.

He looked more disheveled than he had the past few days, as if he’d just come back from a run. Daryl wouldn’t doubt it.

“Are you up for taking visitors?”

“What, _you?”_

Jesus doesn’t get a chance to answer. The door swings back open, retching Daryl’s attention towards it, and then Maggie rushes into the room. She looks relieved and __happy__  to see him.

She bounces over to him, cropped hair swept up by the wind she’d just come in from, and practically throws herself across his body. Her hug is tighter than a vice.

“ _ _I’m so--__ Rick said you were safe, that Jesus and Tara got you back here alright, but I had to see for myself. We wanted to come sooner, but… Negan paid us a visit.”

The last part is a whisper and it sends a chill up Daryl’s spine. He pulls her as close as he can get, resting his cheek against the top of her head.

“Anyone…” he tries to ask. He can’t bring himself to finish, but Maggie understands.

“No,” she breathes. Her answer is its own sanctuary and Daryl swallows the lump that had begun to grow in his throat.

The creak of the door opening slowly draws his eyes to it. He doesn’t let go of Maggie because she doesn’t let go of him, but he manages a gesture to Glenn when he appears. Daryl had almost forgotten about the burns on his face, but the shy way Glenn steps in says that __he__ certainly hasn’t forgotten about it. He’s never known the kid to be shallow -- Carl got his damn eye shot out and was doing just fine -- but he imagines the stares tossed too-frequently in his direction don’t do much to calm his nerves. In fact, Daryl knows the feeling all too well.

“Hey.” Glenn’s lips twitch into an involuntary smile that turns even more genuine the longer he stares at his wife fussing over Daryl. “You’re not up and about yet? I’m surprised.”

“I woulda been…” He gives a pointed look to Jesus, who raises that one brow and twists his lips smugly.

“Right. As you can see, I’ve chained him to the bed.”

“Might as well have! Won’t leave me the hell alone ‘bout rules and shit. The Doc’s just as bad.”

Maggie pulls away at that, smacking his uninjured leg.

“You be nice to Doctor Carson, Daryl. He’s a good man.” And then, with a smile almost as smug as Hippie Prick’s, she adds: “And Jesus isn’t so bad, either. You been givin’ him a hard time?”

Glenn laughs. “You have to ask?” he says as he strides closer, trying to help Maggie to the chair, but she waves him off in favor of keeping her spot near Daryl.

“Carson might say otherwise,” Jesus interjects, “but we _have_  had worse patients.”

_“Seriously?”_

Daryl snorts at Glenn’s disbelief. Maggie grins, her green eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Whatever,” he grunts. Jesus’s smile doesn’t falter, nor does he look away.

Daryl counts in his head -- one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi -- until Glenn interrupts their little staring contest.

“No offense to Daryl, but he’s not the only reason we came here.”

Those words seem to be enough to pull Jesus’s attention from Daryl, eyes flickering back and forth between Glenn and Maggie.

“Should I get Harlan?”

“If he’s not busy,” Maggie adds. Daryl doesn’t miss the way she squeezes Glenn’s hand.

“He’s just speaking with Gregory about supplies. We’re low on a few things, non-essentials, but I’ll have to go scouting soon. We wanted to give it some time in case Negan came to us, too.”

“He still might,” Maggie replies again. The set of her mouth is serious, tense. Daryl recognizes that spark in her eyes; it’s dangerous. Anyone who didn’t fear what this woman could do was a damned idiot. “We could lend you some in the meantime, if we have what you need. Carol shared a few things from Kingdom yesterday, courtesy of King Ezekiel, so I think Rick would agree.”

His ears perk up at Carol’s name. He can’t help the deep exhale that follows. Glenn drops a hand to his shoulder, reaching awkwardly across so as not to hurt the injured one, and pats it awkwardly.

“She’s good,” he tells Daryl, struggling to keep his eyes from darting away. Daryl stares right back at him, never once lingering on the burns he figures Glenn wants to hide. There’s something thankful about the smile he receives for it. “She thinks that if there’s an influx of people here, Negan will get suspicious and tear the place apart looking for you.”

Daryl smirks fondly. Carol is _always_ one step ahead.

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Jesus says quietly from his corner, and they’re back at square one again. Daryl was eyeing him warily, but he had no clue what the hell kind of motive those big crystal blues had for staring at him without pause. “Daryl’s safe here. You have my word.”

His promise is for Maggie and Glenn, but he doesn’t look at them for more than a brief second. The words repeat in Daryl’s head until he fully comprehends them and understands that Jesus is promising to keep Daryl _safe._ Rubbing at his nose uncomfortably, Daryl looks towards Doctor Carson’s desk with his mouth turned downwards.

“I’ll go get Harlan now.”

“There’s no rush,” Maggie insists. She shifts into a better position at the edge of Daryl’s cot. “But thank you. Glenn’s been flyin’ off the handle, he’s so worried.”

Daryl’s gaze flickers over to the young man in the chair. Glenn smiles good-naturedly at his wife’s teasing, but there’s lingering worry stirring deep inside his dark eyes. Daryl figures that means there’s still a baby coming, for now. He really hopes the doctor says it’ll stay that way.

Before Jesus steps out of the infirmary, he turns his head in their direction. Daryl can already spot that sly expression.

“For the record, Daryl’s allowed to walk around with crutches. Harlan encourages it, actually. He’s just too shy to leave the room.”

Daryl’s middle finger flies up, facing Hippie Prick’s direction. There’s a laugh that startles him; not by the volume, but by the sound itself. It’s a little deeper than he’d expected from the soft-voiced man, choppy. Imperfectlyperfect, if that could ever be a thing. It’s gone too fast to really know, swept away with the breeze as the door jiggles silently shut behind him.

_Stupid ninja._

* * *

 

_“It’s a miracle,”_ Maggie tells him as they walk along the grounds of Hilltop, dust rucking up from their feet and Daryl’s single crutch.

He’s red-faced, not from the strain but rather from the scowls he’s been having to send everyone’s way, and also possibly from embarrassment. The physical vulnerability isn’t exactly new, but the prying eyes witnessing it all __is__. And okay, maybe Daryl isn’t exactly a __young__ man anymore; he ain’t old, but he’s feeling every bruise and scrape and shitty gunshot wound like his body was made of cheap glass.

The people milling around remind him of the ones at Alexandria before the walls fell and Deanna perished. They were so ignorant, so unprepared for what lay ahead. As if everything was __normal__  still, as if it ever could be again. _You ever think about it? Settling down?_ Those people were settled, and look where it got them. Most were buried deep in shallow graves and those who survived weren’t so wide-eyed and innocent anymore.

Daryl stops himself from thinking about the past once the faces of those __wide-eyed innocents__  begin to linger his mind. He focuses on Maggie’s voice instead.

“I really thought… Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. We’re here and we’re fine, me and the baby and Glenn.” When she looks at him, left eye squinted against the sun, Daryl looks back fully. The smile she gives him is one of the brightest he’s seen from her in a long time, but even still, it isn’t without its pain. _“You’re_  okay. Rick, Aaron, Sasha… Tara. Carol. Even after everything, all we’ve lost and all we keep losin’, we’re still here.”

Daryl’s eyes avert to his feet as they continue to walk, his hobble getting less and less, though his arm becomes sore against the hard surface of the makeshift crutch. He stops when Maggie puts a hand on his arm, yielding him, and sits on the steps of Barrington House when she does so, too. He catches her line of sight immediately.

It’s on Glenn, in the distance. He’s by the gates, nodding at Jesus beside him and the guards atop the walls. Daryl scoffs at their wielding of those spears, just as strange ad Hippie Prick’s knife fetish. Daryl, probably more than anyone, can appreciate a good blade or any efficiently sharp object, but these damn people at Hilltop think they don’t need guns at all? Jesus had said they’d ran out of ammo a while ago, and yet he’d also said that it wasn’t something they urgently needed. All Daryl knew was that they’d better rethink that decision on the quick if they were hell-bent on keeping him here. If Negan had already paid a visit to Alexandria just in search of Daryl, he probably wouldn’t be too far away from Hilltop. Not for long.

“Glenn likes it here,” Maggie says quietly, catching Daryl’s floundering attention once more. She’s still looking out into the distance, but not seeing anything particular. Or maybe she __is__  and it’s Daryl that can’t see it right. “He thinks we should stick ‘round, ‘til the baby’s born. Mostly ‘cause there’s a doctor here. We were gonna, Sasha got us here while you were droppin’ in and out, left ‘cause of Gregory. But he wants to stay now and… I can tell there’s more to it.”

“He mad at Rick?”

The words don’t sound right to Daryl, are too flippant, as if Glenn would be __mad__  rather than distraught or depressed. But Maggie understands it like she understands everything else. Her round eyes land on him.

“No. Rick’s a leader, but he can’t control everythin’ and he can’t shoulder all our losses alone. Neither of us blame him for anythin’ that’s happened. But I think for the first time, Glenn’s startin’ to lose hope. Ever since that station…”

Daryl knows that all too well. The kid had never killed a living soul before, going in and sacking guys while they slept would never sit well with him. But he did it because he had to and because he wanted to protect those he cared for. Taking lives is never __easy__  for Daryl, the heavy weight of death drops him an inch into his own grave every time he does it, but he does what he does and he doesn’t complain. All the people he’s killed deserved it anyhow, maybe they even had it coming. Maybe Daryl does, too. And that’s why he gets Glenn’s inhibitions, understands that it doesn’t make _him_  weak like it might make others. That it doesn’t make him a liability; it makes him a wonder of this world.

“You gonna stay then? Rick know?”

“I think he does, but we haven’t actually told him yet. Honestly, I’m still not sure. It’s not about where’s safest anymore, it’s more about where we can do the most good and where the most good can be done for us. Right now, that might be here.”

“You trust these people?”

“I trust Jesus,” Maggie says. And the conviction in her voice is as surprising as the way she grabs his hand in hers and holds on tight. “After you and Rick brought him back and we sat down… it seemed strange to see someone so separate from us. Even with Aaron, it was different ‘cause he wanted us to join, but Jesus was just talkin’. He wasn’t asking anythin’ of us, just wanted to bring us here so we could _see_. People aren’t all like Negan or Gareth or the Governor,” she says, twisting until their knees bump and she’s facing him with determination. “It’s so easy to forget that they’re _not_. But Alexandria found us, Hilltop found us, the people Carol’s with right now found her. And if there’s a world out there as big and as good as Jesus believes, then I believe it, too.

“Rick told me “everythin’ we’ve done, we’ve done together,” and that __that’s__  why we’re still here. He said we could do __anything__  if it’s all of us doin’ it. And you know what? I believe that now more than ever. _For it is better, if the will of God be so, that ye suffer for well doing, than for evil doing._  No matter how many bad things happen, we keep goin’ and we keep goin’ _right,_  until we can’t anymore. Glenn will get that again. It’ll just take time… and maybe a change of scenery.”

She’s looking out towards the gates again, smiling when Glenn waves. Daryl looks over, too, and catches the gaze of Jesus. There’s something so optimistic about him, that little shithead, but he’s not delusional. He’s not ignorant to the dangers this world and its people pose. He _understands,_  maybe even as much as Rick and Maggie and Glenn and Daryl himself. It makes him wonder for a moment… what has Jesus lost? __Who__  has he lost? What makes him leave these walls and do the things he does, to help these people survive?

Even after those piercing eyes stray from his, Daryl wonders.

* * *

 

It happens sooner than they’d hoped. Of course, they’d been hoping for __never__ , but they knew that would never fly.

The guard -- _Kal,_ Daryl recalls Jesus saying -- calls out just after sunrise the morning after Glenn and Maggie had stopped in. Daryl doesn’t want to think that they’d been followed or that Negan had paid Alexandria another visit for more information, though both options are likely.  

Daryl’s outside when the silent sweep of panic takes over Hilltop. None of these people had seen what had happened in the clearing, but they’d bore witness to it inside their own walls. They knew what the Saviors were capable of. Would they sell him out under Gregory’s order? To stop another from dying the way Jesus said Rory had? He’s not sure he would blame them; he might do the same if it were for one of his own.

He leaps from the steps, wincing when his full weight suddenly strains his healing injuries, but ignores it and begins to dart towards the infirmary where he’d last seen Maggie. He doesn’t even spot Jesus until he’s already stepped into his path, arm extended and palm pressed to Daryl’s chest, bare fingers splayed. Daryl moves to swat him away, to side-step, to open his mouth and tell this asshole to get out of his way. But he does none of those things once he notices the grave determination capturing Jesus’s expression.

“Inside. _Now,”_ he orders. Daryl doesn’t argue.

He turns on his heel and jumps up the few low steps to get to the door. It’s shoved open, startling Gregory on his way out.

“Jesus?” the old man questions. It comes out sounding more like a one-word demand.

“Negan’s here.”

Gregory’s eyes flash widely to Daryl, their shallow depths making him uneasy. If anyone’s going to give him up, Daryl knows it’s this son of a bitch right here.

“For _him?_ Then what are you waiting for? Hand him over--”

“Gregory, _please._ We don’t have time to talk this through, but I’m asking you for a favor. Don’t say a word to the Saviors about Daryl. Pretend you don’t even know the name. You wouldn’t help anyone against his orders and you _haven’t,_ this is on me. If he finds out, I’ll come forward. You’ll be safe. You know Negan likes you, Gregory. He __respects__  you. Don’t give him a reason not to.”

Daryl’s ears are ringing with the sound of bullshit, but there’s something about the earnestness of Jesus’s words, the way he almost believes them himself, that makes the man seem truly dangerous. He’s manipulating the guy who’s supposed to be top dog, sucking up to feed his ego until he inadvertently starts eating out of the palm of Jesus’s hands. Daryl might be a little amazed if he weren’t so dumbfounded. But there’s no time for either emotion.

“Alright,” Gregory says, puffing up with misplaced pride. “I’ll collude with you on this, Jesus. But if Negan gets angry--”

“Just play it out, Gregory. You’re smarter than even Negan knows.”

His words are hastier than Daryl had yet to hear from him, no doubt spurred on by the sudden echo of voices from outside, but they’re no less like honey to Gregory’s ears.

Daryl feels two hands start to prod him towards the door on the same wall as Gregory’s office while the old man steels himself and steps out. The noises from beyond intensify.

Jesus rushes into the room after Daryl and shuts the doors quietly behind them. Looking around, Daryl swallows, having no clue what they’re supposed to do in a library. Evidently, Jesus does.

“Daryl,” he says quietly. And when Daryl looks over, he’s tugging on a bookcase.

“You’re shittin’ me,” Daryl growls, but he doesn’t waste time in trying to help Jesus with the heavy lifting. They slide it away from the wall, revealing a square outline in the peeling wallpaper.

“A later addition,” Jesus says just as quietly as before, eyes darting towards the the sheer curtains covering the windows. They can see the people of Hilltop gathering around at the Savior’s orders. “I thought it might come in handy. Looks like I was right.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

Jesus kicks into the square, forcing it to swing upward. He bends down and holds it open with his fingertips and then looks to Daryl next, eyebrows raised in expectation. Daryl scowls, but drops into a crouch and crawls inside the small, dark hole. He __really__ doesn’t like the idea of being shut in and locked up behind a heavy shelf he’ll have no way of knocking over once the wall drops back down. But there isn’t anything he can do about it, not unless he wants to face Negan’s men head on.

Was it Dwight that sold them out? Was he going to? Why would he help Daryl in the first place? He _hates_  how none of it can matter now.

“You’ll be safe.”

“Yeah, well you get killed out there and I’ll be __stuck.__ ”

_“Trust me.”_

Daryl looks up from his spot on the floor, pressed as far back as the hole is deep. He can see Jesus illuminated from the window’s sunlight and he thinks back to Maggie’s words. _I trust Jesus_ , she had said. And after everything he’d done for Daryl and his family, after everything he was still doing -- risking his life _again_  -- there was no reason for Daryl not to trust Jesus _ _right now__.

“Don’t let Glenn or Maggie do anythin’ stupid,” is all he can think to say. He figures Jesus takes it as some sort of olive branch.

“I’ll try. And here --” A knife is pulled from his vest, the only piece of his outerwear he had taken to wearing inside the walls. He spins it around, gripping the blade and offering the hilt to Daryl. “Just in case.”

Daryl grasps it without question.

His head tilts back to rest against the wall when he’s engulfed in darkness. The scraping of the bookcase being jammed back into place is muffled to his ears. And then there’s silence. He doesn’t hear footsteps or a door, not even any shouting. He can’t hear anything at all, except his own breathing and his heart shifting gears. The dust makes it hard to breathe.

 

The feeling of uselessness sets in too quickly and the sense of claustrophobia not long after. He’s never been afraid of small spaces, but he thinks back to being enclosed underground at the CDC and what being stuck there could have meant, and he feels his insides go taut with anxiety. He can’t hear _anything_  outside from himself. Is that good or bad? How much more blood is he about to have on his hands?

The knife Jesus gave him sits steadily in his hand, its blade clinking against the wood delicately. He holds the hilt tighter after a moment, the rough skin of his fingers grinding against the rubber, nails digging deeper into the indents that are already there. It hadn’t been one of the two Jesus kept on either side of his hips; not the main weapon of choice for Jesus, it seemed, but still a well-worn spare. How many walkers had he’d killed with this blade? How many people? Daryl begins to wish he’d let Rick ask those questions, although he doubts Jesus would have answered them honestly at the time. He was working against the clock, waiting to detour them with firecrackers in a barrel. Daryl almost snorts.

The tactic was _smart,_ and so is this one. Maybe Jesus deserves something other than irritable indifference. _Maybe._

He twists his wrist, lifts it up and slams it back down in frustration. The blade dings into the flimsy criss-crossed planks beneath him, grinding into the grain. He repeats the motion, again and again and again, and then he stops, suddenly exhausted. Daryl’s hand falls away, limp beside his cramped thighs, and he shuts his eyes as if the switch of one darkness for another, one of his own choosing, will bring him more peace.

He’s sweating. Probably losing oxygen, all cramped up like this. He doesn’t really know. He wants a smoke. Maybe it’ll kill him faster.

 

The sudden scraping of the bookshelf in front of his hiding spot has him jerking in surprise, knocking his head against the wall. He can fill dirt fall to his shoulders. Tensing, Daryl yanks the knife from the wooden boards and holds it to the right of his chest, elbow out and bent, ready to strike while his knees come up in a defensive position. He’ll start with a kick first, then go for the stab. But what can he do after? There’s no place to run and he can’t pretend his current condition doesn’t make this harder. But he’ll try, he _always_ tries, and maybe just once it’ll be good enough.

When the scraping stops, Daryl steels himself. The square door bangs open with a kick, the light streaming in blinding him momentarily, but he forces his legs into a forward push anyway.

_“Ugh _-__ Hey, hey!” The person on the other side catches his legs mid-swing. “It’s just me, Daryl. Okay? Just me.”

He blinks up, trying to let his eyes adjust to the sudden beams of light, and inhales the fresh air as if he had been starving for it. It’s Jesus, alright, holding Daryl’s calf in one hand and his dirty, booted foot in the other. Crouched down like this, Jesus’s hair cascades around him, creating a curtain like it had in the van. Except it’s not blocking Daryl this time, it’s blocking Jesus’s own face, and the hunched posture says that might be intentional.

He doesn’t know what comes over him when he reaches up. His right hand props him off the floor, the blade poking out as rubber etches temporary grooves into his palm. But his left hand rises, fingers jerky and swift in their pursuit, and he grabs a handful of hair to shifts it away.

The eyes of Jesus, wide and blue beneath tensed brows, strike up to his face fiercely. But the connection doesn’t knock him back. Neither of them says a word, just stares and _stares._

Daryl doesn’t _know_  what comes over him, except maybe guilt or worry; worry that Jesus might have taken punishment for him, that the side of his face would now be aflame, peeling and bloodied and --

But there’s nothing that severe. In the light cast from the shaded window, Daryl can make out the formation of a bruise. The skin is reddened, turning purple, with oblong spots discoloring its usual peachy hue. There’s a little cut, a split upon his cheekbone, but nothing else he can spy.

The hair falls back into place when Daryl moves his hand, hanging down in front of Jesus’s shoulder while Daryl reaches his arm across to to the right side. The look he gets now is less severe, less… _suspicious._ Daryl might even call the new expression _curious,_ something akin to patience. But Daryl ignores the silent questioning and grabs another handful of hair, tilting his own head to get a better look in the darkness. He exhales through his nose when he sees the skin completely untouched.

“What, you turn the other cheek?” he mocks lowly. Guttural. But his tone doesn’t erase the concern his actions had just shown, nor does it erase the slow shift of Jesus’s expression, morphing into something far too soft and far too amused.

“This time,” he concedes. And it’s only then that he lets Daryl’s legs plop back onto the floor. As Jesus stands, he adds, “But I won’t always.”

It says a lot that Daryl actually believes him.

His ass scoots across the hard floor, his boots squeaking as they propel him forward, his pants threatening to slip right off if it weren’t for the belt wrapped tightly around his waist. Jesus doesn’t offer to help again after the first brush-off of his outstretched hand, so he stands back with his arms crossed instead, neck craned as if trying to catch sight of Daryl’s expression.

Once he’s out of the dark little cubby, he climbs up onto his feet and steadies himself against the bookshelf. His thigh burns and even his shoulder is starting to ache with phantom pains. Without his hand or head holding it up, the wall slams down behind him.

He offers the knife back to Jesus, sweaty palm clutching the blade a little to tightly. The other man shakes his head, twisting his hand at waist level and showing his palm once more. Daryl’s eyes dart to it briefly and then land back onto the bearded face in front of him.

“Keep it. You never got yours back. And I have plenty.”

Daryl takes the offering, as he’s had no other weapon on him since getting shot by Dwight, and he stashes it into his back pocket for lack of anywhere better to put it. He nods towards Jesus’s bruised face.

“Why’d you get smacked?”

“Do any of them need a reason?”

“Nah, guess not.”

“But… still,” Jesus continues, allowing his arms to flop to his sides. “They know my role here. If anyone were to help you escape, of course it’d be me. Maggie and Glenn being here kind of disrupted Plan A, which was to claim that none of us knew who your group even was. So, I had to go with Plan B.”

“Which was what?”

Despite the situation, or maybe __in spite__ of it, Jesus smirks.

“Plausible deniability,” he says. “Gregory's favorite tactic. It didn’t seem like they were actually looking for you, they just wanted someone to punish. Negan wasn’t with them, which means this isn’t something that will drag out for long. Hilltop hasn’t exactly caught the same… _ire_  as Alexandria has recently. Not yet, anyway.”

“So, what? You gonna lock me in that hole every time someone comes knockin’? Might as well head back, least then I can stand with my own people.”

Jesus shakes his head, concern creasing between his brows once more. It’s becoming a routine sight.

“I won’t stop you, Daryl, but it’d be a mistake. You’ll be putting them in even more danger--”

“You said they ain’t after me now.”

“Do you think Negan needs an excuse to cause trouble? __More__  than he already has? Right now, Rick’s afraid of him--”

“Rick ain’t afraid,” Daryl interrupts again, but he doesn’t believe his own words. Rick __is__ afraid and Jesus knows it, too. Everyone does.

“He’s afraid,” Jesus repeats carefully, “we _all_  are. But they can’t control Rick for long, not like they can with Gregory. I’m sure you can imagine how that’s a problem. Look, we’re on the same side--”

“So you’ve said,” Daryl replies gruffly, interrupting for a third time. Jesus doesn’t seem peeved, though. Apparently he has unimaginable patience.

“And yet you still don’t believe me.”

Daryl drops his gaze to Jesus’s hands. They’ve come up to stomach-level, one hand cradling the other, thumb pressing into his palm. The other fingers twitch from however much pressure he’s applying. Daryl’s seen the younger man do this before; while visiting Daryl’s bedside, when speaking of Negan and the Saviors that first time at Hilltop. Daryl wonders if it’s some sort of nervous habit, or a manifestation of stress. Maybe his cool head isn’t so easy to keep as he’d like people to believe.

Daryl exhales and relaxes his posture minutely. The threat is gone, but he still feels shitty.

“I do,” he says softly, after a stretch of silence, and then Jesus has that contemplative look again. Daryl looks down, scratching at his head. “You’ve done right by us so far. ‘Sides from stealing our truck… and lettin’ us think Negan wasn’t shit.”

There’s an intake of breath from Jesus at Daryl’s words, almost like a huff. It catches him a little off guard.

“I explained what they did to Rory. They did the same thing to your friend. I didn’t know anything else.”

“’Said they had groups of twenty…” An image of the clearing flashes before his eyes, the people he cares for lined up for the picking, all of them surrounded by what could have been a hundred or more _Saviors._ “Had more than that.”

“I told you we didn’t know,” Jesus says as he looks Daryl straight in the eye. “And I said that the groups we __saw__  were as big as twenty, I figured you would have guessed he had more stashed away somewhere.”

Daryl turns away and begins to push the bookshelf back into its place. Jesus doesn’t try to help, he just keeps talking and it makes Daryl pause again.

“But I _am_  sorry, Daryl… for Abraham. There’s no real way to make it right, but we can try our best, and we can do that by working together.”

_Everything we’ve done, we’ve done together._  Those were Rick’s words, Maggie had told him. Success or failure, he couldn’t say it wasn’t still true. He wouldn’t be here ten times over otherwise. If they could do what they needed to do by working with Hilltop and Jesus, then they would. _He_  would.

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Jesus nods, smiling kindly.

“Fair enough.”

 


	2. We Were Made Out of Lightning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I am not your savior  
> I'm just a friend keeping you alive  
> And hindsight proves that you're haunted  
> the same way that you speak all the time"
> 
> (we were made out of lightning | right away, great captain!)

 

Daryl sleeps in the infirmary. He eats in the infirmary. Sits in the infirmary, flipping through books he doesn’t care to read and staring out the window, watching the walls and gates like a hawk and the people even more closely.

He’s lucky Carson doesn’t mind him sticking around, since the medical trailer doubles as his personal bedroom, too. Daryl had been worried the doctor might appoint him to the Barrington House, where Gregory and Jesus and whoever didn’t have their own trailer resided. He doubted Gregory would let him in, which was fine and dandy considering he wasn’t about to share with some peppy stranger. He’d never get any sleep, if that were the case.

Daryl would rather camp outside, maybe in a corner near one of the walls where he could see everyone coming and going, like he did in the beginning at the farm. But the prospect of being gawked at like some strange zoo animal kept him stuck to his cot in Carson’s little rectangle.

Maggie and Glenn had stayed in the infirmary their first two nights as well, making the already small space severely cramped. But no one was getting any medical attention and Doctor Carson seemed genuinely welcoming of their presence. It was on their third day that Jesus had spoken to Gregory and somehow convinced him to give the two a room in Barrington. Maggie had told Daryl that Gregory was allowing them use of the library, the same one Jesus had hid Daryl in when the Saviors showed up just five days prior. She seemed pleased with the accommodation and insisted as much as Daryl had about helping Glenn move a couple of the spare cots into their new digs.

They’d brought a small bag of things with them, mostly clothes and weapons and some food, but they were already dragging out the days they’d told Rick they’d be away and neither of them wanted anyone to worry.

Sitting on the floor in the library, Daryl listens to Glenn and Maggie as they stand near their new bed at the far wall of the spacious room.

 _“I’ll_  head back,” Glenn insists quietly, keeping his voice hushed out of habit. “I’ll tell Rick we’re staying, grab some stuff, and be back before you know it. I’m faster on my own, remember?”

“You sayin’ I slow you down?”

“What?  _No!_ No, that’s not--”

“I’m just teasin’,” Maggie whispers back, a tired smile on her face. Daryl watches as Glenn squeezes her hand and she squeezes back, entwining their fingers together.

“I can go,” Daryl offers, earning both of their attentions. He nods to Glenn, says: “With or without you, I’ll go. Be back just as fast.” _And I’m dyin’ to get outta here._

Daryl doesn’t miss the side-eye Glenn and Maggie share. He snorts before Glenn even opens his mouth.

“It’s okay, Daryl. Really. I’m fine to go. And I should be the one to tell Rick.”

“I can at least go with you,” he tries, not even caring about how desperate he sounds. But he knows he’ll be refused once more.

“I appreciate it, but I’d feel better if you stayed here with Maggie.” She rolls her eyes just as Daryl does. “Jesus and Harlan seem fine, but I don’t know about anyone else just yet.”

“Yeah… yeah, I get it.”

He heaves a sigh and moves to rise to his feet, steadying himself against the shelf. There are rows of them, all crammed with messy books and dusty knick-knacks. Worthless.

“Take it easy,” he says to both of them as he passes, exiting into the entryway and shutting the door gently behind himself.

It’s quiet out here, his footsteps echoing, but he can manage to make out the murmurings of two voices coming from Gregory’s office. It’s most likely Jesus in there, trying to negotiate _something._ He seems to be the only one who actually talks to the old man, who’s patient and wily enough to fill that massive ego and get permission for shit he’d most likely do anyway.

Ignoring it, Daryl stomps out through the double doors and plops his ass onto the steps, inhaling the humid air.

Daryl’s learned the names of several of Hilltop’s inhabitants by now. Not by his own choice, mostly by how often he hears Jesus, and even Maggie now, refer to them. Kal and Eduardo spend most of their time as guards, sitting atop the walls with their dumb spears pointed forward. Doctor Harlan Carson stays in his infirmary more often than not, with some guy named Alex showing up just the night before and heading straight over without a word to anyone. Daryl remembered the strange air in the room when Carson and Jesus had spoke of him, but the large man was still a mystery and didn’t even seem interested in knowing what had been going on since his presumably long absence.

There are others he hears about; Andy, Bertie, Craig, Freddie, Wes, Dante, Brianna... More faces, more names. More people to look at Daryl like he’s a feral dog ready to snap and bite their hands off.

They’re not __bad__  people, they’re just not his own.

Jesus, at least, doesn’t seem bothered by his stand-offish nature. The glares and grunts only get him intrigued gazes and crooked smiles in return, like Daryl is the most interesting thing in the world. Jesus is not afraid of Daryl, which he makes clearly and increasingly evident. It pisses him the hell off, and yet… it’s not all that bad. It doesn’t cause the real, boiling kind of anger, at least; Daryl’s saving _that_  for the Saviors, and not some harmlessly annoying Hippie Prick.

From the corner of his eye, Daryl can see someone slowly approaching, their hands in their pockets and their head down. It’s Tara. She’s headed straight for him.

He takes a breath and looks down at his knuckles. The skin is cracked, but otherwise fine; no blood, no scabs, barely any dirt. Unfamiliar. Daryl swallows. _Tara._ He hasn’t seen her in days, not since she walked out on him after telling her about Denise, after he _screwed up._

She sits down next to him now, though; carefully, hunching in on herself as if trying not to take up too much room. Daryl doesn’t like the idea of her being uncomfortable in his presence, but maybe that’s not even the reason. He doesn’t know. Daryl lifts his head up, squinting out towards the wall, vision blurry to the few who roam by. And he keeps silent, unsure of what to say or if he should be the one to say it first.

Tara sighs.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

The sound she makes is something like a laugh, which is good. Daryl turns his head to view the side of her face. For now, she avoids his gaze.

“I wasn’t mad,” she begins, dropping her chin to her chest. Her fingers pick at her frayed sweatshirt, like they had before. “I’m _not_ mad… at you. I mean-- I think I knew, before you said anything. It felt like I just _knew._ Whatever could go wrong, would go wrong, and it did. Out there, for all of us. I should’ve known and I guess… I did?”

Tara scratches her head and after she brushes back the strands of hair that have fallen from her ponytail, her sad eyes finally meet Daryl’s.

“What I mean is… You hope things like this won’t happen even though you know they eventually will, and I just keep thinking that I wish we had more time. It was like __nothing__. And that’s really fucked up, y’know? To act like the time we _did_  have together didn’t mean anything just because there wasn’t enough of it.”

Daryl rubs at his shoulder as the phantom pains twinge again. He’s unreasonably sore today, but he supposes it’s better than feeling nothing at all. The numbness is the worst.

And he wishes he had his vest and the keychain he’d kept in its pocket so he could give it to Tara now and tell her the story behind it. But he can’t even do that for her. All he can offer are awkward, jumbled words.

“You had time to love her, right? To feel that? Ain’t enough, I know, but it’s somethin’. It matters more than a lotta things.”

Her eyes are wide open and shiny, brows pulled together like she can’t believe what she’s just heard. He’s said something wrong, he knows it, _of fucking course--_

But Tara doesn’t start crying, doesn’s start telling him off, and she doesn’t get up to leave him like the lost cause she must think he is. Instead, she smiles at him, close-lipped and trembling, but she _smiles._

“Hey…” she says softly, reaching her elbow out to touch his. “You’re pretty smart, y’know? And I don’t mean it like I thought you were dumb or anything, just… you don’t talk a lot, at least not around me, so I never knew your thoughts were so… __profound.__ You’ve been holding out, Dixon.”

She’s teasing him now, he can tell that much, but there’s nothing malicious behind her words or behind the smile she’s still wearing. He reaches his elbow out in turn and tags her back, looking up towards the sky as her smile begins to widen.

“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. That’s Tennyson, right?”

Daryl grunts, shrugs.

“How the hell should I know?”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Who the fuck cares. He wasn’t wrong, though. And neither are you. Being with her was the first time since all this shit started that I was _actually_  happy. And I’d rather have those memories and the pain that comes with them than have nothing at all.”

Daryl catches himself nodding at her words. They make him think of Beth, her singing, her peace with the world; Abraham, ready to fight until his last breath; Andrea, ending it on her own terms after trying to fix what had gone wrong; Tyreese, Hershel, Dale, and their conviction to never lose themselves to the cold, ugly world. _I just want my brother back_  -- the last words he’d ever said to Merle; and he thinks about how that might’ve influenced the decisions his brother made in the end. To give them a chance he knew he couldn’t be a part of.

Daryl peers up at her through his hair when Tara stands and turns to face him, blocking the sun. Her hand comes up in front of his face and in it, a cigarette. His expression turns questioning.

“Some asshat was trying to flirt with me,” she explains with a shrug, holding the little stick steady. “I was _going_  to kick him in the balls, but Jesus came over to bail me out. I asked him to swipe these. He’s really good at it.”

_Tell me about it._

“You smoke?”

“No, but __you__  do. So, here.”

She waves it in front of his face, her smile less intense and more serene. He plucks it from her fingertips with a mumbled _“thanks.”_ Then Tara pulls out a box of matches from her pockets and drops them into his lap.

“I got _those_  myself. Be proud.”

Daryl shakes his head amusedly at her and strikes the wood against the box, lighting the cigarette and holding it between his cracked lips, exhaling two billows of smoke through his nose. Tara holds out her fist, awaiting innocently until Daryl bops it with his own. Then she walks past him up the steps, entering the big house to no doubt look for Maggie. She’ll catch Glenn, too, before he leaves for Alexandria.

He sits on the steps in the shade of the awning for a while, exhaling the smoke he sucks in, and simply watches the guards. The ashes flick away when the cigarette slots between his fingers and begins its slow burn down to the filter.

The door clicks open behind him, drawing his attention. It’s more of a mistake than anything when he spots Jesus coming through. Jesus looks to the cigarette hanging from Daryl’s hand and then up to his face, his head tilting down so he can look at Daryl through his lashes even though he’s standing above him. It’s almost coy; a trick to appear harmless, to set Daryl at ease. It raises his hackles instead.

“Tara didn’t say those were for you,” Jesus says, taking a step closer. “But I’m not surprised.”

“You gonna lecture me now? Gonna die anyway, might as well do what I want before then.”

Jesus steps down the stairs slowly, spinning around to stare down at him just like Tara had. His hands move to clasp in front of his stomach.

“I’d look at it the other way. If you’re gonna die anyway, you might as well do what you can to prolong the life you have. To get the most out of it.”

“You get that from one of them self-help books?”

“Are you familiar with those?” Jesus counters. It’s soft, leveled but clear, and Daryl freezes.

It’s easy to forget he shouldn’t say shit like that, easy to forget he’s not supposed to be comfortable or else he might slip up, and then people might start asking questions and start pretending they _care._ The only person alive who knows as much about him as himself is Carol, and even she never gets straight answers, can only listen to what he gives her, assume the stuff he doesn’t, and welcome the commiseration when he allows it.

It hadn’t just been the book he spotted when he’d been looking for Beth with Carol what now felt like ages ago __Treating Survivors of Childhood Abuse.__  He hadn’t read it, barely peeked inside before it disappeared into Carol’s bag, but they both _knew._ She had wanted to protect Sophia desperately, and Daryl… It wouldn’t have changed anything, but he couldn’t stop himself from being curious.

When he was in school, before he’d dropped out to do shit-all else, he’d come across the books in the library and pretend he wasn’t actively looking for them; pretend he didn’t care to give them a second glance instead of face the fact that he was too scared to look inside or acknowledge that maybe it would help if he _did._ The impulse was sporadic and never fulfilled, and eventually he stopped wondering about what someone might tell him if he simply __asked__  or what the words on little pages might make him feel. He doesn’t want to think about any of this again, dredge up old wounds when he’s got fresh ones to worry over.

He doesn’t dare respond to Jesus and he doesn’t give him the satisfaction of even an uncomfortable twitch. Instead, Daryl stares daggers at the younger man through steely eyes, blowing out rings of smoke through an open mouth and hoping they make those prying eyes water.

Jesus doesn’t even blink.

The sudden footsteps behind him make Jesus look away first, but Daryl holds his gaze on him a moment longer, narrowing it further. He smashes the shrinking cigarette onto the steps to snuff it out, peering over his shoulder to spot Glenn standing uncertainly at his back.

“Uh… I’ll wait by the gates?”

“Sure. I’ll go grab my things.” Jesus takes a step away and looks down to Daryl yet again. His serious expression has shifted with a tiny smirk. “Best not to cause any trouble until I come back.”

“Best not come back then.”

Jesus laughs just like he had in the infirmary, except Daryl can see his face this time. The full cheeks plumping up makes his usually big eyes squint, the blue looking almost translucent in the bright light shining down on them. The creases around his nose and mouth aren’t fully hidden behind his facial hair and fold deep with his amusement, his lips parted to show his teeth, laugh stuttering low and melodious.

“I wouldn’t count on __that__ ,” he says almost jovially.

Daryl doesn’t get why this kind of shit causes Jesus so much glee when they have more than two handfuls of things to worry about.

But then Jesus spins on his heel and heads to the left, making a beeline for the row of trailers on the far side of the grounds. Daryl watches him go. He’d mentioned getting his stuff, so did that mean he had a trailer of his own rather than a room in the big house? Not really what he had been expecting.

He tears his eyes away from the retreating figure when Glenn, as he walks down the steps, lets his hand brush Daryl’s shoulder.

“Is there anything you want me to bring back?”

Daryl’s bow, his bike, his vest… all of it was gone. He had nothing left, except maybe some clothes he’d scattered in Rick’s attic and Aaron’s garage, maybe his lighter dropped somewhere else. He could use some jeans that fit better than these, but then again, the ones he’d been wearing weren’t so great either.

“Nah. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Kay.” As Glenn starts his trek towards the gates, Daryl calls out, “Hey, watch your ass out there!”

“Will do!”

Daryl refuses to say it out loud, and it’s not as if Glenn needs it anyhow, but he trusts the stupid ninja to get his friend back safe. And that puts him at ease for the time being.

* * *

 

He’s scoping out the fences, thumb nail getting farther and farther bitten down to the nub the more he ignores those watching him. He remembers Jesus explaining the material’s yard they’d found, resulting in the tall walls being built up around the place. They looked sturdy enough, well maintained, and there weren’t any obvious gaps or dangerous wobbling. The people here were good for something, at least.

It’s then he hears the call of Jesus, shouting up for Kal and Eduardo to open the gates. They must have parked the car further back again, like they had with the RV their first time here. He’d never seen any other vehicles and he knew the one Jesus and Glenn had left in was the same one Glenn and Maggie used to arrive, so did they not have any? Or were they hidden away somewhere? The hidey-hole in the library sparks to mind, as do the firecrackers... Jesus was a crafty son of a bitch, no telling what else he had going on behind the scenes here.

Daryl’s rough fingertips trail over the rugged wooden poles of the wall as he strolls over towards the metal gates being pulled open. His body twists to the side, leaning to get a look at who he knows is behind it before he can properly see. Jesus is in front with Glenn right beside him. They’re carrying bags.

But the real sight that makes his arms drop loosely to his sides and a wave of relief wash over him like a warm breeze, is the sight of the stragglers with them.

Rick, Michonne, and Enid are clustered behind Jesus and Glenn, and all five move forward as the gates shut.

In a sudden movement, Enid pushes past Rick and Glenn to sprint forward, her pack bouncing up and down against her back. She rushes past Daryl so fast that he can barely side-step, but he sees the reason for her rush immediately. Maggie’s made her way down the steps, her lips curling with a grin, and she pushes into a jog to meet Enid in the middle. He can’t hear what they say from here, if they say anything at all, but the sight of them hugging in a happy reunion is enough to make his own lips begin to lift at the corner gently.

“Daryl!”

His head turns back to the group coming closer, taking in the vision of Rick rushing towards _him._ He’s grabbing Daryl in an instant, pulling him into his chest. Daryl’s head drops to Rick’s shoulder, arms wrapping around his brother, holding him close and reveling in the comfort for the minutes it lasts. Daryl sniffles, not feeling so bad when he sees Rick’s eyes looking almost translucent with the welling tears.

“You look good. But how’re you feeling? Dwight said last he saw, you got shot again, but you’re up and about now. It couldn’t have been too bad?”

“You talked to that shithead?” Daryl asks by way of answering. Rick nods grimly.

“I did. All I know is, he helped get you out. Jesus and Tara wouldn’t’ve gotten into Sanctuary without him.”

“Heard you, ‘Chonne, and Rosita made a move. That was _stupid.”_

“Yeah, well. Not anythin’ that got us hurt, just enough to make some noise. We weren’t gonna lose you, too. Look, whatever Dwight did before, he’s turnin’ over a new leaf now. I’m making _ _sure__  of it. And he’s not off the hook yet, trust me.”

“Jesus, what the hell is going on out here?”

Gregory’s voice suddenly rings through the yard, causing Daryl to look up, spotting him standing not too far away from where Maggie, Enid, and Glenn are grouped. Michonne and Jesus mingle a little several more feet away, their conversation interrupted by the indignant leader of Hilltop. Daryl looks to Jesus next and he swears he witnesses a flash exasperation. But it’s gone in a blink, replaced by a soft expression and a soothing voice. The people edging around them stop to listen.

“Glenn and I just got back. We brought Rick and the others so they could check on their people. They appreciate Harlan’s help and your hospitality, Gregory.”

Daryl bites his tongue, sharing a quiet and knowing look with Rick. He can see the twitch of a smirk wanting to break through, but Rick schools his expression with swift ease. No one else speaks.

“Well… They’re welcome here, of course,” Gregory practically strains to get out. Daryl watches him carefully, barely even blinking, and Gregory does his best not to glance his way. _“Derek_ might even be well enough to head back now, wouldn’t you say? Surely Harlan’s been doing his job--”

“He ain’t a miracle worker,” Daryl finds himself saying, drawing nearly all eyes to himself. “He did what he could. I’ll heal when I heal.”

It’s not as if Daryl even __wants__ to stay here, that’s not what he’s getting at. It’s just the way he knew Gregory would react -- thick brows pulling together, mouth pursing, hands on his waist as he tries to force a smile and then cajole it into something that could resemble sincerity -- that spurs him on. Gregory’s unease around Daryl is one of the few times he’s taken satisfaction in the seemingly invisible signs that rest around him, blinking the words DO NOT APPROACH.

“Oh-- yes. Yes, and we all wish you a __very__ speedy recovery,” Gregory continues, clearing his throat.

“Of course we do,” Jesus agrees. He’s stepped up closer now, slotting himself into the wide berth between Daryl and Gregory. There’s something sly about his grin, though; as if Daryl is supposed to understand some kind of inside joke. The punchline comes when he adds: “But Daryl is precious cargo and Hilltop is the safest place for him right now.”

“I agree,” Rick concurs, meeting Daryl’s eyes. It reminds him of the look Rick flashed him through the rear-view mirror when he was goofing off in the car after they’d lost the supplies. Just like then, Daryl ignores it.

“Fine. _Fine,”_ Gregory grits, perhaps a little too harshly. He clears his throat another time. “But I’d like to speak with you in my office, Jesus… and maybe bring this young lady, too.”

Gregory’s line of sight is settled directly on Michonne, her steely gaze doing nothing to deter his lecherous demeanor. Daryl wouldn’t be surprised if he’d set his sights on her simply because of how close she and Rick were standing.

“I don’t think I caught your name last time…”

“No,” Michonne says, “you didn’t.”

Gregory is silent for a stretch, assuming Michonne will continue on and divulge her name at his request. And when she _doesn't,_ he’s forced to pass the awkward moment with a hum, his stance tightening with discomfort. All the people surrounding him are a make-up of Daryl’s people -- excluding Jesus, who is _still_  looking at Daryl in that inquisitive manner -- and it’s putting the old man even further on edge.

He can picture in his mind the image of Gregory with sweaty palms holding onto a ledge, slipping farther and farther off as more strangers invade his carefully crafted haven. His control is being threatened and with it, his leadership, over something so trivial. A _conversation._ Daryl hates to think it, but he’d bet against Gregory lasting for much longer -- as the leader or simply as one of the living.

“Why don’t Maggie and I join you and Jesus in your office?” Rick intones. Despite phrasing it as a question, there’s no room for Gregory to give any answer other than _“Alright.”_

And once Gregory spins on his heel, fingers pulling at suspenders, and marches back towards Barrington, the others also begin to disperse. Maggie reaches out to touch Jesus’s arm as he passes her on the way to the infirmary before she, Glenn, and Enid follow Gregory’s trail back to the big house. The few that had still been watching don’t take long to kick up dust as they rush off to their trailers or their stations.

But Daryl stays put next to Rick and Michonne, and the three of them share a silent, meaningful expression.

“What d’you really come for?”

“Jesus needs to talk to Gregory and we need to talk to Jesus.”

“‘Bout Negan?”

“We’re figuring things out,” Michonne answers quietly, vigilantly eyeing her surroundings. “We need people and then we need a plan.”

“Had both of those already. Things still went bad.”

“Yeah, I __know__ …” Rick sighs. “But this’ll be different. It has to be.”

“Together doesn’t mean just _us.”_ Michonne turns inward to make their standings a triangle, glancing between both Rick and Daryl with resolve. “Carol and Morgan are talking to the people they’ve been staying with… a guy that calls himself _King_ Ezekiel. Turns out, Jesus knows him too.”

“How’d they meet these guys?”

Daryl had never heard the full story, only that Carol had left before Daryl ran off in search of Dwight with murderous intent. With all the shit that’s happened since, he hasn’t heard anything beyond her biding her to time before she visits.

“Morgan stayed on her trail, found her injured, not in the right state of mind. These guys found ‘em, took ‘em back. We’ve seen Morgan since, but not Carol yet. She’s working on it. And from what Jesus says, Ezekiel will want in.”

“So, what? Some guys here, some guys there--”

“All of __us__ ,” Michonne adds.

Then Rick add, “And Dwight,” and Daryl shakes his head furiously.

“You’re really gonna trust that asshole? He flops ‘round more than a fuckin’ fish outta water.”

“He won’t this time,” comes a firm voice from behind, startling Daryl.

He jerks his head around, his vision filling up with the younger man as he stands just a little too close. He’s holding his own hands again, thumb pressing into palm. Daryl scowls.

“And you know everythin’, huh?”

“I _know_  that when I talked to him--”

“Oh, you talked to him, yeah? You gonna talk to Negan, too? Gonna talk and talk ‘til all this shit’s settled?”

 _You think shit’s settled?_ It always comes back down to that.

Jesus snorts and crosses his arms over his chest. The look radiating from his piercing eyes is like a warning beacon.

“If it was necessary, then yes, I would,” he says, his voice measured. Daryl would laugh at the absurdity of the claim if it weren’t for the grave seriousness of Jesus’s countenance. “Listen to me: taking out the Saviors won’t work unless we do it _together._ I told you the world was bigger. More people means better results, a better life. You should understand that not __everyone__  is unreasonable. If I _talk_  to the people here, they’ll see reason. They don’t want to live in fear, and so they won’t. They’ll take action. Carol will get Ezekiel. And Dwight will give us the upper-hand. You don’t know __why__ , do you? Because he’s tired of being afraid, too. Just like the rest of us.”

“He’s _afraid?”_ Daryl whispers angrily, stepping all the way into Jesus’s space. The shorter man doesn’t back down; he simply stares up into Daryl’s eyes with as much spark as Daryl’s sure is in his. “Denise was afraid, too. The girl he killed tryin’ to get to _me._ He fuckin’ shot me after anyway. ‘Fore that, he stole my shit and went on his damn merry way when I was offerin’ him a place to go! He’s afraid ‘cause he _chose_  to be, and he coulda’ chose different a long time ago.”

“He’s choosing different _now,_ Daryl.”

“Now’s too late.”

“Hey, let’s just--”

Jesus ignores Rick’s attempt at mediation.

“I went to Dwight after _your_  people told me you two had a history. I had no reason to think he wouldn’t tell Negan, or that he wouldn’t kill either of us on the spot. But I tried because I knew it was important, just like _this_  is important. Everything we’re doing __needs__  to be done, Daryl, and Dwight understands because he’s trapped, too. Helping us get you out was the first part, helping us stop the Saviors is the second, and all he wants in return is a place where he and his wife can stay without having to fear the living. That doesn’t make _him_  good and it doesn’t make _this_  right, but it makes our chances a hell of a lot better, and I think that’s what we need to focus on.”

It’s not what Daryl wants to hear -- hell, it might be the __last__  thing he wants to hear -- but deep down he knows that Jesus is right. That Rick and Michonne are right, too. This is the way things have to get done.

He takes a step back and looks down, ashamed at himself for reacting so hotheadedly. Old habits were still dying hard.

He clears his throat.

“Then what’re we doin’?”

“We talk to Gregory first,” Rick says, eager to get back on topic. “Jesus isn’t sure if we should get him in on this yet, so we’ll make it about trade for now, feel him out. Then the seven of us will go over what to do after Carol reports back.”

“I’ll get Maggie and Glenn,” he states, “but I ain’t sittin’ in with ya’ll. Got better things to do than listen to some old man gettin’ his ass kissed.”

“Alright.” Rick looks relieved at the fading tension. “We’ll see you after.”

They break from their triangle-turned-square and head towards the house together, Jesus trailing behind Rick and Michonne while Daryl goes on to the library. The voices inside are muffled, so he knocks to give them a warning. After a few seconds, Maggie calls out for him to come in.

Opening the door several inches, Daryl peeks his head inside.

“They want you in there.”

Maggie nods and pushes to her feet, heading for the door that Daryl pushes farther open for her. She pauses by the frame, however, and glances inquisitively back at Glenn, who’s still sitting beside Enid on the bed.

“Maybe just you…” he trails off, scratching at his head.

Maggie looks like she’s about to argue, so Daryl cuts in.

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on the girl, she’s always runnin’ off otherwise. And I gotta go see Carson. Don’t have time to babysit.”

Enid’s glare isn’t as harsh as it could be, so Daryl suspects she knows the excuse is more for Glenn’s sake than anything. She doesn’t argue and neither does Glenn, and so Maggie sighs and nods in reluctant agreement.

“Fine,” she says. “But if I can’t hold my tongue and Gregory kicks us out, I’m blamin’ you.”

The smile at the end of her sentence brings a matching one out from Glenn, putting both of them at ease. Daryl isn’t so much worried about Maggie sounding off as he is about Rick. No matter what he’d said about Jesus and his affinity for talking, he figures it might come in handy in that office.

* * *

 

He hadn’t lied to Maggie about seeing Doctor Carson. He gave the man a wave when he entered the infirmary, sprawling out along the cot that had become his while the good doctor went back to scribbling in a blood-stained tablet. He’d been checked out that morning, anyhow, and Carson determined he was healing up nicely on all avenues. But it hadn’t been long since either wound, and being careful not to strain himself or catch an infection were things that still held top priority.

Daryl didn’t stay put for long, however. He slid from his bed and moved back out into the open, now lingering by the blacksmith’s stall.

His fingers toy with the matchbox tucked away in the pockets of his baggy sweatshirt. He’d cut the sleeves off immediately, alleviating the tightness in the shoulders; and ripped at the neck, hating the thick and claustrophobic coverage. It’s good enough for now. Comfortable. He’d never been one for material possessions, but he misses his vest dearly, as if it had been some type of security blanket. He didn’t feel like himself without it.

Daryl’s gaze swoops slowly across the weapons scattered across the wooden table and strung up against the half wall. Steam billows up and around the tarp hanging overhead, originating from a man stoking the fire.

“See something?” the man asks with his back still turned. He clangs around for a moment, metal on metal on wood, then wipes his hand on his apron and finally rotates around. “Standing there so long, you must have.”

Daryl looks to the spears lined up, to the knives varying in size, the single machete. Nothing he wants or needs.

“Nah.”

“Got a preference?”

“Crossbow,” Daryl answers, glancing up from the line of spears once more. He couldn’t imagine wielding one of those. He’d probably get himself killed.

“Hmm… Yeah, I’m not making one of those.”

Daryl snorts.

“Don’t want you to. Got this for now,” he says, patting the knife that’s nestled in a sheath against his hip.

The man leans closer, tilting to get a better look. It seems he recognizes the piece from the handle alone.

“Is that Paul’s?”

Paul. Daryl hadn’t heard that name since the Hippie Prick first introduced himself. It seemed as if everyone preferred to call him Jesus. Except for this guy, and Daryl himself.

“I didn’t steal it,” Daryl grunts, “if that’s what you’re implyin’.”

“I’m not implying anything. It’s a good piece. Have you used it yet?”

“No.”

“Well, rest assured, it’ll do fine. You’ve been here for days now and we’ve never been introduced. You got a name?”

“Do you?”

The man gives a small smile at Daryl’s defensive rebuttal.

“Sure. Earl Sutton.” He doesn’t offer his hand for a shake, perhaps sensing that Daryl wouldn’t bother. He shrugs.

“Daryl.”

“I thought so. I heard it around, but I wanted to make sure.”

He’d heard it around? Had people been talking? Wouldn’t surprise him, everyone was fucking nosy around here. Daryl turns his head and squints out at the sun, holding a hand up to shade his eyes. He can spot Kal easily, but the other on post isn’t someone he quite recognizes yet. He thinks the name started with a D.

“Mostly from Paul,” Earl continues, as if able to read Daryl’s thoughts. “He likes you people. He says your good guy, so I believe him. And you know, he’s a good guy, too.” When Daryl glances Earl’s way once more, the man makes sure to retain eye contact. “I heard you arguing earlier -- Don’t worry, Gregory’s not like Negan, but let’s just say I’m still not his biggest fan. If you guys are trying to get this shit with the Saviors worked out, you’ve got my support. But… I think you should cut Paul some slack. He does more for this place than any of us, and maybe I’m wrong, but he saved your life, didn’t he? He gave your friends access to our doctor. If you go to war with Negan, he’ll be on the front lines, right beside you. That’s how he is. If you have a problem with him--”

“I don’t,” Daryl cuts in, rubbing his thumb along the matchbox in his pocket. Early watches him unblinkingly, trying to decipher the truth of those simple words.

Daryl isn’t bullshitting anyone; he doesn’t have a problem with Paul or Jesus or whatever the hell he wants to be called. He’s just frustrated about a whole lot of things and even though he __does__ have some semblance of trust in the Hippie Ninja of Hilltop, he’s still wary of him on a personal level. And… Daryl’s not quite sure why. It’s just the vibe he gives off, or maybe even the first impression he’d gotten. But there was no _problem_  and, okay, he feels kind of shitty for making there seem like there was.

“Well…” Earl says to Daryl with a satisfied nod, “you can take a spear, if you want. I don’t have much else you’d like. And sorry about your crossbow.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Daryl leaves the stall and steers his path towards Barrington. He figures they must be done speaking with Gregory for the time being and he wants to know what exactly all of these groups are going to try and do to help stop Negan and the Saviors. He wants to believe they can do this, like he believed before. But Negan is __more__  than a Boogeyman; he’s more than anything they’ve faced thus far, and Daryl’s not entirely sure that this isn’t the end. The farther they move, the farther off the map they go, and then they’ll be erased entirely.

His thoughts are broken when the door to Barrington House opens and Jesus steps out, clothes casual and gait determined, long hair blown back in the slight breeze. He starts down the steps and directs himself towards the medical trailer, and that’s when Daryl calls out.

“Hold up!”

Jesus halts his movement and looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. The closer Daryl gets, the easier it is to see the shift in expression. The thoughtful lines ease, softening out with a congenial smile.

“I was just about to get you,” he says, grabbing at his left wrist and then dropping both arms when he realizes there’s no glove to pull on. A habit. “They’re waiting in Maggie and Glenn’s room. Tara’s there, too.”

“Kay…” Daryl swallows some of his misplaced pride and his sudden, creeping nervousness. “Look, ‘bout earlier… goin’ off on you like that? Was wrong. Sorry.”

Jesus’s lips spread into a slow, even softer smile, one that reflects in the depths of his endless eyes. Daryl glances towards the big house to escape the strange pull.

“Hey, you’re not the only one who’s frustrated, alright? And you’re also not the only one who has a problem with our proposed arrangement.” _Tara,_ Daryl thinks. Having to work with the man who killed Denise...  _ _Damn__. “Honestly? It’s nice to have the push-back.”

Daryl snorts doubtfully. “C’mon.”

“Really. It was… _interesting._ You don’t have any reservations about saying what you think, but you don’t do it often enough. You can talk, Daryl, about anything you want. There’s always someone who’s willing to listen.”

 _Not in my experience,_ he wants to say, __and not for long__. His dad never gave two shits about Daryl’s opinion, Merle’s head was always too lopsided to hear straight… The people he’d come to care for and call his _family_  were a different story, he knew that. But talking to them was tougher than it had to be.

He backed Rick up because he believed in him as a leader, but also as a person just trying to do their best. He didn’t always agree, though that was rarely stated, and when it __was__  it never turned out to be some big, debatable thing. His thoughts were usually unspoken with Carol because she could read him so well, __too__ well, which left those ideas running through his brain with nowhere else to go but further __inward.__ Who else around was willing to listen? Aaron would try to make it some big life lesson and Tara would either joke too much or not enough. Denise was gone, along with Beth and Hershel. He supposes Glenn would be a good listener, but he wouldn’t know what to say, and Maggie might try to _fix_  him--

“What, like you?” Daryl huffs.

 _“Exactly_ like me.”

Daryl shrugs a shoulder, as if the words could fall right off, but they don’t. They stick to his armor, slipping into the cracks, making him feel… important. Not in the sense of survival, in the sense of helping others around him scrape their way up from the ashes of the world they’ve come to know, but important in the _selfish_  way. Were these words empty promises, lacking real intent? Or did Jesus mean them? It shouldn’t even matter.

“Don’t need to talk much if you get shit done. __That’s__  what I do.”

“I guess that’s true,” Jesus admits. “Actions speak louder than words and all that.”

“Yeah.”

That soft smile Daryl was just starting to get used to begins to morph into something a little more playful.

“Play checkers with me.”

“What?”

“Checkers,” Jesus repeats. “After Rick heads back to Alexandria, we’ll sit down and you can show me how your mind works.”

He’s not quite sure how to respond to such a random request. They don’t have time for shit like this, would be his normal excuse, but they __do__ right now. Rick wants to talk things over, but nothing can be put to the test until they’re sure that Carol has secured the Kingdom’s cooperation. What will Daryl do after Rick heads back, anyhow? Prowl Hilltop some more, checking the walls for a hundredth time? Or maybe reread one of those dumb books Jesus keeps dropping off at Carson’s trailer? Daryl knows how to play checkers and he’s not half bad at it, so what’s the harm in accepting? Maybe it’ll even get Jesus off his back, show him that he’s willing to play nice.

“I… I guess.”

“Okay,”

_Okay._

* * *

 

The plan in its bare-bones state sounds simple. They gather up the forces, corral them around Sanctuary’s walls, and pressure the Saviors into a scramble. Then regroup after the initial assault and get ready for the second phase. They weren’t quite sure what exactly that __was__  yet, but they were working on it.

The problem, Daryl knows, is that the plan would not be simple in execution. It was going to take a lot of people, all armed and ready to fight, ready to lay down their lives. It would be an all out war. There was no avoiding it and there was no avoiding the fact that even if there was a snowball’s chance in hell that they succeeded, the losses would be detrimental.

“Not too many black on the board,” Jesus comments quietly, aggravatingly. He looks up at Daryl with uninhibited smugness.

“It’s a dumb game. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout more important shit.”

Jesus leans back in Carson’s chair and watches Daryl with far too much interest.

They’ve been in the medical trailer for almost an hour and a half now, kicking the doctor out so they could play with his checkers set. It was surprisingly in tact, if not more than a little beat up, and Jesus had been self-satisfied since the moment they had each moved their first piece.

“If we were fighting Negan right now, would that be your excuse for a fuck up? You thinking about _more important shit?”_

Daryl glances up from the board with his brows arched in surprise. He’s never heard Jesus speak this way before. The man was usually so proper and controlled. _Fuck_  and _shit_  sounded weird wrapped inside his relaxed tone of voice.

“When you’re in something, you have to be in all the way. This is a game right now, but you can still lose. And from the looks of it, you’re about to.”

Daryl grabs once of his little black discs and slaps it into a vacant space just to appease the man in front of him.

“You ain’t gonna win, so you best stop talkin’ shit.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Jesus plucks his own red piece from the board and drops it onto a square two spaces away from Daryl, collecting the jumped black pieces.

“I’ll have to disagree.”

Frustrated, Daryl reaches forward to move another piece in haste, but freezes when Jesus’s bare fingers rest against his wrist. The fingertips feel soft against his skin, cool against his warmth. Daryl’s breath catches reflexively.

“That’s not the move you wanna make,” he whispers. “We’re not in a rush… unless you have something else to do?”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Daryl pulls his hand away from Jesus, settling his elbow atop the table and pressing his mouth against his knuckles. He chastises himself silently, telling himself he knows better than this. He’s got patience, can track a buck for hours and not snap a twig. He can kill dozens of walkers and climb and uphill bank with his bare hands and a steady resolve. He can do _this._ The hippie prick is just getting under his skin.

Looking down at the board again, he sees that the game is a lot closer than Jesus had made it out to be. He wants Daryl to try, to _engage_  with him, for whatever reason. And so he’ll do just that.

Peeking through the hair hanging in front of his face, Daryl takes a more concentrated look at the board. Jesus had stopped him from jumping one of his reds, as it would have resulted in two of Daryl’s blacks being taken by a kinged set. If Daryl moves his own king chips from the corner to allow it to be jumped and then moves his last piece from the home row next turn, he could wind up with four reds and effectively put himself in the lead. He makes the move.

Jesus tilts his head and studies the new positions, leaning forward even farther, thumb pressing down thoughtfully on his bottom lip. Daryl tears his gaze away, his stool creaking as he shuffles atop it anxiously.

After Jesus takes his turn, Daryl puts into action the next part of his plan, and waits again. But the younger man sees what he’s trying for and moves a piece quickly into a position of defense, blocking two out of four of the pieces he could take. Still, those couple captured reds make the game tied.

“Surprised?” he questions.His voice is like gravel to his own ears.

Jesus hums pensively.

“Considering how hopelessly you chased me around that field, I didn’t think you’d be this good strategically.”

“Couldn’t do anythin’ with you runnin’ around like a chicken with its damn head cut off.”

“Maybe because I thought you were the one about to do the cutting.”

Daryl snorts, gripping beneath the rickety stool with one hand to steady himself as he sits up a little straighter.

“Nah. You just thought you were slick.”

“I _am_  slick,” he says to Daryl. _Teasing._ “I can prove it to you.”

The low, amber light from the lamp to his left paints Jesus in a half-glow. His eyes don’t look so blue here, but they still shine like crystals, almost mesmerizing with so much quiet brilliance hidden within.

Daryl snuffles awkwardly, tapping the metal table with his fingers.

“How?”

“Skill bartering. You teach me something, I teach you something.”

“What can you do?”

Jesus laughs, but it’s lighter this time, a purr of amusement from the back of his throat. Daryl tenses on instinct, put on an unrecognizable edge.

“I can do a lot of things, Daryl,” Jesus assures him, sliding one of his pieces into an empty square. “And I can teach you a lot, too. But what can _you_  do?”

Daryl slides one of his own pieces into a vacant square, as well. He tries to focus on what moves could come ahead, but he can only really envision two. Everything else feels scrambled, _stuffy._ It’s stifling in the little trailer now.

“Hunt,” he mumbles, shrugging a shoulder. “Track. Shoot. I’unno.”

Jesus moves again and Daryl sees the set-up. He takes his turn by jumping two more of his opponent’s red pieces, cursing to himself when his black king gets pushed off the board. They’re close to the end now, neck and neck, and Daryl doesn’t __want__  to lose. Not this battle, not to this guy.

“Very valuable skills. I was right about you being precious cargo.”

“’Cause I’m useful?”

“You’re useful and you’re _good._ ”

A red piece hops over another black, the words being spoken from Jesus distracting Daryl from the game.

“So’re all my people,” he mutters, snatching up a red king. But another black is added to the younger man’s pile in exchange.

“They are,” Jesus agrees. They’re down to the wire; two against two. Their eyes lock in the dim light. “That doesn’t mean _you_  can’t be special.”

Daryl isn’t sure if it’s the intense words from Jesus or the sly movement of another red taking his black; maybe it’s both in some strange and a heavy combination. Whatever the case, the hand gripping the stool shoots up and smacks the table impulsively, lifting the narrow legs off the floor. The forward momentum flings the board into the air, right into Jesus’s chest as he jerks backward in surprise.

The table falls back into position with a scraping thud. The piles of red and black discs zoom through the air and scatter around the trailer, sharp clinks echoing -- _clink clink clink_  -- one right after the other in rapid succession. They skid around the room, rolling beneath the desk and cots and cabinets. The game is over. No one wins.

Or maybe they both do.

Feeling a little more satisfied, Daryl drops himself back down onto the stool and exhales a deep breath. The look of incredulity directed his way morphs into something knowing, something _deliberate._

“Hey, I always liked chess more anyway.”

“Get the hell out.”

Ignoring Daryl’s semi-serious request, Jesus grips the board from his lap and places it back onto the crooked table, folding it in one fell swoop. Then he laces his fingers together and searches Daryl’s face.

“Harlan will be pissed if you don’t find all the pieces. He plays with Alex often. You won’t want either of them on your back.”

 _It’s a dumb game,_ Daryl wants to retort once more, but it isn’t his business to say what people should like or care for. The doctor’s been good to him all around, the least he can do is put the damn checkerboard back the way he found it.

Daryl sighs and sets his feet back onto the ground, kicking the stool away. He eyes Jesus dubiously as he passes to stand in front of the desk behind the younger man’s chair. Dropping down to his knees, Daryl bends at the waist and looks into the darkness, barely catching sight of the outlines of a few stray pieces.

When he sticks his hand beneath the small slot below the cabinet and begins to feel around blindly, a question comes to mind.

“Alex. What’s that guy’s deal? See him leavin’ all the time.”

And now it’s Jesus’s turn to sigh. His chair squeaks as he presumably twists around to watch Daryl’s back.

“He’s a good man,” Jesus says quietly. “He helps out Harlan a lot. And Wes.”

“Wes?”

Daryl slides two pieces into the light and goes back for a third. His squint shifts into a blink when the darkness is suddenly invaded by a dim circle of light. When he takes a look over his shoulder, he sees Jesus holding a flashlight up for him. He looks more subdued than Daryl has ever witnessed.

“Wes keeps the kitchens running, helps feed everyone. He’s Alex’s boyfriend.”

Daryl’s head slams against the cabinet, drawing out a slew of curses from his parched mouth. The reaction is… peculiar. So what? Aaron’s got a boyfriend, too. And Tara had a girlfriend. And Daryl doesn’t even know Alex or Wes, it doesn’t make a difference to him. But maybe it’s the way that Jesus _said_  it, not regretful or sad, but as if he had stakes in their relationship. Like he _knew_  something.

Daryl snatches the last piece from beneath the cabinet and rises up onto his knees, rubbing at his head. He still feels Jesus’s eyes on him, tracking his every move.

“Why’s he always goin’ outside the walls then?”

“I don’t know what he does out there. I guess he just likes to get away.”

“Ya’ll too stepford ‘round here? Get away from _what?”_

Jesus follows Daryl’s crawling form with the flashlight and points it towards the row of cots as he reaches underneath them for more plastic discs.

“From me,” Jesus answers. And Daryl stops. “If you asked, he’d probably say it’s the other way around. But when I leave Hilltop, it’s not to run away. Not like him.”

Daryl’s lips start to part, a question at the ready, but he squashes it down and doesn’t say a word. He’s not really sure he __wants__  to know what Jesus is talking about. Why would Alex leave Hilltop because of Jesus? What did he do? It’s not Daryl’s business and he’s never been one to pry. He doesn’t really care, anyway. Or… well, he _shouldn’t_  care. It’s all dumb shit, he could call it meaningless, but it’s not. He __does__ care. He couldn’t fool Beth and he doubts he could fool Jesus.

“Isn’t it strange?” Jesus asks, tone somehow light and heavy at the same time. “That people can still make stupid mistakes and have it affect them? You’re thinking about survival and all the things that entails because your whole life can change at any second, but there are still situations where the mistakes you make aren’t deadly, and then you have to live with those on top of everything else.”

Very slowly, Daryl grasps the last piece beneath the cot. He stands, his knees aching, and strides back over to the pile he’d collected, keeping his head down and his hair as a cover. He scoops the checkers up when he bends and places them back onto the table, striding over to the few lone discs still littering the floor.

“People’re still people,” he says after a long moment, keeping himself faced away. “And the world’s always been shitty, it’s just a whole lot weirder now. Whatever happened, it ain’t just your fault. Don’t need to feel bad about it.”

Jesus ticks the light off when Daryl drops the rest of the pieces onto the table. He sets it to the side and begins to put everything back into the torn box, keeping his attention solely on the task at hand while Daryl returns to his spot atop the rickety stool.

“Alex blames himself, and I blame _myself,_ and I think Wes blames both of us. It’s a little tricky not to feel __bad,__ but… thanks. That means more than you probably think.”

It’s not hard to put together when he thinks about it. Jesus had said Alex and Wes were __together__ , and now Alex is avoiding him -- or perhaps, they’re avoiding each other -- and Wes is stuck in the middle with hurt feelings towards them both. Some kind of lover’s squabble? __Great__ , that’s all everyone needs. Another Rick-Lori-Shane bullshit situation. At least no one involved can get pregnant.

“We’ll play cards next time,” Jesus states, drawing Daryl out of his reverie. The subject change is welcome, but not entirely agreeable. Daryl shakes his head.

“Ain’t gonna be a next time. You cheated.”

“I did not!”

“Did too. Can’t concentrate with you runnin’ your mouth off.”

“That sounds more like a personal problem, Daryl,” Jesus says with a laugh. “But alright. There are plenty of other things we can do.”

Daryl definitely doesn’t want to know what Jesus has got in mind.

“Whatever. Now get out for real. We got things to do tomorrow.”

* * *

 

Sutton’s blacksmith stall is as good a place as any to wait for Jesus’s return. He’d left for Alexandria close to an hour and twenty minutes ago and should be back with Rick and probably Michonne any minute now. It shouldn’t even be taking them this long to travel between communities, but Daryl won’t let himself start worrying. There’s already too much going on inside his head.

If Hilltop and Alexandria are being watched by the Saviors then they really should cut down on the back and forth, although that in itself might seem suspicious. Things need to happen in moderation, not too quick and not too slow, but they can’t drag this out forever. They can’t keep living like _this,_ in fear of some sick fuck and his goons on their way to knock down their doors.

Whatever the case, he needs to get himself out from behind these walls and he needs to do it soon. All this sitting around is making him feel antsy.

The knife he’d picked up from the counter felt cool in his hand, sturdy and nicely weighted. From where he was leaning, Daryl could see that it looked quite a bit similar than the one Earl was currently working on by the fire. It’d be good to have a surplus of weapons for all the shit that would surely go down. Had Negan taken all the firearms from Alexandria? They must have some still, __somewhere__. Hilltop had the melee weapons covered, at the very least, so Kingdom had to offer something worthwhile if they did end up throwing their hats into the ring.

Not for the first time, he wishes he could hear from Carol.

Daryl straightens and walks slowly towards the gates as it opens, lingering off to the side like he had done the last time. He shades his eyes and watches Jesus, Rick, and Michonne stride through, footprints tracking in the long stretch of mud leading to the entrance. They’re not as well-armed as they’re accustomed to being, stuck with knives and handguns, but it’s _something_. Negan wanted them to do his bidding and they couldn’t do that without a way to defend themselves. Daryl figured Negan and his saviors didn’t realize just how resourceful his people could be. Well, they’d find out soon.

When the gates begin to shut again, Daryl ambles over, wondering what’s inside the bag draped over Jesus’s shoulder. More medical supplies? Hilltop was doing as well as they could on food and necessities, having already set aside Negan’s share, so he couldn’t quite imagine what more the people here needed. Not unless the three had stopped to check out a random gas station or mini mart, which might explain why they took so long to arrive.

“Jesus has a present for you,” is the first thing Rick says once they’re close enough not to shout.

Daryl’s suspicion immediately skyrockets.

A present, huh? Right. He could only imagine it being another dumb picture book or a stale cookie or some shit. If he actually wanted to be useful, he’d hand over another cigarette since Tara seemed to be hoarding them as prizes he’d have to somehow __earn__. Daryl shakes his head.

“Don’t want it.”

“You’ll want _this,_ ” Michonne insists.

Daryl’s gaze flickers over to Jesus. He doesn’t look overly smug or mischievous, so it must not be anything __too__  terrible or useless. In fact, he looks a little on edge himself, like he was starting to rethink handing it over.

But he smiles after a moment of breath and begins to rummage through the bag, glancing up at Daryl through the corner of his eye.

“And… the angel gets his wings.”

Jesus pulls a lump of cloth from his bag and shakes it out, holding it up for inspection.

_Wings._

The sight of his vest -- dusty and worn-out, with the crumpled wings illuminated by the glimmering sunshine -- makes his chest ache with relief, with unbridled and unfamiliar _joy._ It’s just a vest, a thing to wear, but it’s __his__  and it’s here in front of him once more. It means-- Well, it means a helluva lot to him.

He reaches out and grips the leather, scrunching it between his fingers. He looks at Jesus before he pulls it from the younger man’s grasp, very slowly, as if this could turn out to be some kind of trick and he’d be punished for any hint of a wrong move. But it __isn’t__. It isn’t a trick or a test or a vision, it’s real, and the smile on Jesus’s face appears almost as vulnerable as Daryl is feeling inside.

Having it in his hands and staring down at it with his own eyes, Daryl swears it looks worse off than it had the last time he’d worn it, but it’s not something he can really confirm. He just knows Dwight wouldn’t have taken any care of it, not the way Daryl had. He’s still shocked it hadn’t been lost or tossed since the escape.

“How’d you get this?”

His gaze connects to Jesus’s, his thumb rubbing over the material he was so accustomed with. And maybe it seems silly, the reverence in which he holds the vest against his stomach, but in a world where they lose so much… he knows that what little he _can_  hold onto should be cherished.

_How did he even know?_

“Dwight flagged us on the road,” Rick answers. “He was alone, snuck off to get an idea of where we’re at with the plan. Jesus asked for it back-- Well, he didn’t _ask_  so much as threaten.”

Rick explains it in his slow drawl, glancing to Jesus and then back to Daryl with a spark of interest. The uncharacteristic sound of protest Jesus emits is akin to a snort.

“I didn’t threaten him.”

“You did,” Michonne corrects, smiling.

It could be his imagination, but Jesus’s face looks a little more tinted red to Daryl’s perceptive eye. The younger man tugs at his gloves, pulling the leather farther up his wrist, and huffs.

“It doesn’t really matter what I said to him, does it? What matters is that Daryl has his vest back now.”

Daryl can accept that answer. It’s not easy to imagine Jesus intimidating someone, but he’s probably not incapable. After all, not knowing exactly what went down means Daryl can imagine that Jesus threatened to cut Dwight’s balls off, and that suits him just fine.

He shakes the vest out in front of him and then flips it round to loop his arms through the holes, shrugging his shoulders to settle it properly in place. The pockets get patted down as an afterthought. There’s no keychain, but he won’t let disappointment spoil this moment. He’s too used to doing that.

“How’d you know it was mine, anyway?”

“It’s a pretty unique item, not easy to forget. You were wearing it when we met and when I brought your people here for the first time. Dwight’s had it since you were at Sanctuary, right? I couldn’t push hard enough for the crossbow, but I figured the vest would be good enough for now.”

 _Why even try to get any of his shit back,_  Daryl wants to ask. _Why go through the trouble?_

“Thanks,” he says, not unlike he had when Jesus had stolen his gun to save his life. There’s no punch to follow it up, this time, and his gratitude is sincere.

Jesus smiles at Daryl. Somehow, it feels more private than the other grins and smirks that have become so typical, as warm as the humid air surrounding them all, and it makes Daryl’s chest feel tight and _weird._

Jesus doesn’t shy away from Daryl’s gaze and Daryl doesn’t either, their pupils like magnets. He’s not sure __what__  exactly is happening now; are they studying each other, trying to fit the crinkled puzzle pieces into place? Or maybe there’s some unspoken understanding transpiring between them. Whatever it _actually_  is, it takes Rick’s voice to pull Daryl from the strange spell.

“Same place as before?”

“No,” Jesus answers. “We’re commandeering the kitchen this time. Earl asked Wes to keep people away, as a favor, so we should be good for a couple of hours.”

“Alright.” Rick steps forward, nodding to Daryl. His mouth quirks with a grin. “Lead the way, _Angel.”_

_And the angel gets his wings…_

“Shut it,” Daryl barks, mouth turning down into a petulant scowl. He whirls on his heal and stomps away, leading the smug parade on the path towards Barrington. Even so, the vest envelopes him in comfort.

* * *

 

It would be more productive if they had everyone, from Hilltop and Alexandria and whoever was signed up from Kingdom, rather than just the few convening here and there.

Carol and Morgan delivering messages from Kingdom meant that everyone in Alexandria heard the news first, then Jesus would have to go and bring Rick back to Hilltop just to tell the few trusted comrades each new section of the plan as it comes together. The current group of Rick, Michonne, Daryl, Tara, Maggie, Glenn, Enid, and Jesus wouldn’t take long to expand, but it wasn’t safe for too many to constantly travel between communities. Not just yet.

Rick lays out the good news for them: Carol has managed to convince Ezekiel to to get involved and join their efforts to stop the Saviors. He’s willing to command his people to fight with Hilltop and Alexandria to garner a more peaceful co-existence, but there’s no telling yet what he’ll want in return. All Rick knows is that Ezekiel will travel to Alexandria to hash things out. The next objective is one for Jesus to take hold of.

“It’s time to start gathering your people up. Take count of who’s with us, who’s not, who might be a problem…”

“Before anyone agrees to anything, they’ll need training,” Jesus asserts.

“We’ll talk to Rosita and Sasha,” Michonne replies reassuringly. “They can help with that. And so can Daryl.”

She’s not demanding anything of him, only asking him to take on a share of this responsibility with a silent request. He hasn’t done anything of worth since being forced down onto his knees as a witness of Negan’s “new world order.” He can do __this__ , there’s no doubt that he can.

“We trained people before.” He nods. “Won’t be a problem if they’re willin’ to learn.”

“And I’d like to help,” Maggie pipes up, clutching her elbows in each hand, “if you’d let me. Talkin’ to everyone shouldn’t be all on you.”

“I appreciate that and I’ll be glad for the help, but I think we should talk to Gregory first.”

“Really?” Glenn asks incredulously. “We had to save his life just to get a trade going. You think he’ll agree to this?”

“Probably not,” Jesus concurs, “But having Gregory on our side will motivate the people . Rick, imagine if you weren’t willing to fight. How many in your group would still follow your lead?”

“And what happens when he refuses?” Glenn inquires.

Jesus rubs at his cheek with his gloved fingers and takes a deep breath. He looks to the side, his thoughts no doubt running a mile a minute inside his head, but he doesn’t budge from his stance.

“Then we’ll know for certain,” he states simply. “Others will want to sit out anyway, maybe he could stay behind and help keep things running. It’s what he’s good at.”

“If that’s what you want,” Rick agrees, although Daryl can tell he doesn’t like it. “But don’t tell him everythin’. We don’t know what he’ll do. We got three days to get things goin’ and there’s no telling what’ll come after.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s all we can ask,” Michonne assures softly.

It’s written on Jesus’s face, how much he appreciates her understanding. Daryl thinks back to what Earl had said, about Jesus doing more for Hilltop than anyone else in the community, and he’s beginning to see how true that is.

After Rick disbands the meeting, Daryl follows Jesus and Maggie out of the kitchen with the rest leaving for the library with Glenn. Maggie’s silent beside Jesus, her strides quick and in sync, but Daryl hangs back to observe. They’ve got a guy who calls himself Jesus, a guy who calls himself a king, and and ex-deputy who’s gone through more flaming hoops than a fucking circus animal. The last thing they need is some old fart trying to slip into the mix to act all high and mighty.

“You shouldn’t tell that prick nothin’.”

Without stopping, Jesus and Maggie both glance over their shoulders.

“I agree, __I do__ , but Gregory is still our leader… For now.” Daryl doesn’t miss the look Jesus gives Maggie. “If there’s something in it for him -- like a steady line between Hilltop, Alexandria, and the Kingdom without Negan’s interference -- then he __might__  get involved. Admittedly, I don’t have much hope, but--”

“We have to try,” Maggie finishes, nodding resolutely. “We need everyone and everythin’ we can get.”

Fine. If this is how they want to play it, then he’ll back them up. They just all better hope it doesn’t backfire on their asses spectacularly.

He follows them the rest of the way into Barrington house, rubbing at his chin and propping himself against the wall beside Gregory’s door. Jesus and Maggie look to him and then to each other.

Jesus knocks.

* * *

 

There’s not much he can make out from his spot outside, not with their hushed tones, but the constant flow of voices doesn’t give him the greatest impression of how the conversation is going. And the moment those doors reopen, Daryl knows things aren’t about to be smooth.

Maggie storms out, not even glancing at him as she heads towards the group gathered in the library-turned-bedroom. Jesus steps into the entryway only seconds later, shutting the doors roughly behind. Daryl pushes off the wall, studying the sharp lines of the younger man’s face.

“Told you he wouldn’t do shit.”

“Yeah,” Jesus breathes. His hands clench at his sides. “But now we know. And it’s time to get work.”

“What first?”

* * *

 

 _ _We can make it together,__  he remembers Glenn saying once, when things had just kept getting worse and worse and worse. __But we can only make it together.__

Daryl had believed this. He wanted to find people, bring them back to Alexandria, give them a chance to thrive in the world, in a community that only got stronger. Aaron had understood this and he had understood __him__ , the two of them outsiders even amongst their own kind.

But then things went to shit again, as they were wont to do, and he could no longer believe Glenn’s words. When Negan had them on their knees -- _together _\--__  there was nothing they could do. And Daryl believed they were all going to die. That feeling of powerlessness could haunt him for the rest of his days, if he let it; and that’s why he won’t. Daryl is working back up to _living_  and it starts here, at Hilltop, with Jesus’s suggestion that Daryl start off easy.

With Glenn and Tara preparing for a supply run before Kingdom and Alexandria collide, the three at Hilltop immediately set out to recruit the colonists. Maggie sets her sights on an idealistic kid named Dante, while Jesus goes straight for the usual guards, Kal and Eduardo. So Daryl’s task, to help bolster his confidence in rousing those to their cause, is to speak with the already swayed Earl Sutton.

“Back again?” the blacksmith wonders as Daryl marches over, chewing his bottom lip.

He doesn’t waste any time.

“You wanna help these people? Give ‘em back their lives?”

“You’re going after Negan again.”

“He’s got the numbers, but we ain’t far behind. We can do it together, but _only_  together. That’s how it is. That’s how it’s gonna work.”

Earl rubs a greasy towel over his hands, twisting it in thought. The pile of knives on the table has grown, as if he had already known this was coming. There’s really no doubt that he did. Sutton seemed to keep an eye on everyone, even while he was busy at work.

“I imagine this is what Paul’s talking to those two about,” Earl says, waving towards the wall where Paul, Kal, and Eduardo do indeed stand.

“Yeah. And Maggie’s going for Dante.”

“Smart.” Earl nods. “He’ll say yes. So will Kal and Ed. So will I.” He smiles a little then, chuckling and shaking his head. “Not everyone will agree to this, you know that.”

“Don’t matter. Havin’ people like Gregory wouldn’t help anyhow.”

“Most of us aren’t trained--”

“We got it covered.”

Earl lets out a deep breath and rubs at his face with dirtied hands.

“Well, then… you can count me in. But the three of you can’t try to round us all up. Things will get confused. I’ll speak to a few people.”

“We need you makin’ weapons--”

“I can do both,” Earl reassures. There’s no room to argue.

Daryl nods and turns, beginning a new path towards Harlan’s trailer. But a sharp whistle echos from behind him, stopping him in his tracks. He’d only gotten a few steps forward, but Earl is already waving him back, bending down to grab something from a shelf as Daryl reaches his stall again.

“I got something for you. It’s no crossbow, not even close, but it should keep you occupied. And if anyone would appreciate it, you would.”

Daryl’s gaze is drawn down toward the objects that Earl slaps onto the wooden counter. A rectangular metal pipe, a screw, eye bolts nuts, latex tubing, string, leather… clay? And the little cloth pouch is no doubt full of ammo, maybe rocks or marbles or ball bearings.

It’s a slingshot. _A slingshot._  Huh… he hasn’t really used one of those since he was a kid, shooting marbles at birds and beer bottles. It wouldn’t fair too well against walkers, but a squirrel or a rabbit? Shoot, he hasn’t been hunting in a long while. This could be good.

He lifts it off the table, weighing it in his hand. It’s light enough, but not flimsy, and the clay grip is molded for fingers nicely. Daryl flips around, tossing it from hand to hand, pulling back on the rubber bands to test the resistance. There’s a good shot to be had there, he can feel the power from it already.

He holds the slingshot up, shaking it at Earl.

“Thanks,” Daryl tells him. “It’ll get a good squirrel.”

Earl smiles, although he tries to keep it from looking too amused. Daryl peers down at his new weapon, squeezing the hard grip, and then he shoves it into waistband of his jeans. He swipes the little bag of ammo, too, and shoves that into the pocket of his vest.

Daryl’s never needed an excuse to leave Hilltop, but this gives him one. Maybe he’ll head out in the morning, when the guards change. Or maybe he doesn’t have to sneak at all. He’s not a prisoner anymore, he can do what he damn well pleases. He just hasn’t wanted to rock the boat or put anyone else in danger, but he’s waited long enough.

On his way to speak with Doctor Carson in the medical trailer, Daryl thinks. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he’s going on a hunt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and finish this story and have it all posted by the time TWD comes back in February. So here's the next chapter. I hope everyone enjoys this little-big AU. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! :)


	3. Can't Take My Eyes Off You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wisdom tells me to turn away  
> Broken once, it's all the same  
> My arms will grow, chest expanding  
> of all the boys you could have landed  
> why'd it have to be me?  
> You, can't take my eyes off you"
> 
> (can't take my eyes off you | cary brothers)

It’s still dark out when Daryl rises from his cot in the infirmary. Peeking out the blinds, he can see two new guards climbing up to their posts while Kal and Eduardo head to the trailers. So Daryl shoves his socked feet into his boots and laces them up, yanking on the cuffs of his pants and the ropes around them. Then he shrugs on his vest, patting the pockets to make sure his box of matches and bag of ammo are still inside, and grabs the knife from beneath his pillow and the slingshot lying on the floor.

Tara hadn’t left him any smokes before she’d gone off with Glenn the night before, which pissed him off a little, but she _had_  given him a hug and, well… that was pretty alright. There was no reason to take them with her, so she probably left them behind in Glenn and Maggie’s room, where she and Enid had also been staying. He’d have to ask about it.

It’s quiet in Barrington house. He creeps towards the library even though he figures Gregory’s still asleep up in his room, and then raps his knuckles against the door.

Enid answers right away, opening it wide enough for him to enter after giving him the eye for a stretch. He steps in, stopping when he spots Jesus sitting near Maggie. They look up from their hushed conversation, both giving him their full attention. His boot scuffs the floor.

“M’headin’ out,” he tells them, fingering the leather of the slingshot sticking out from his belt.

The door clicks shut and Enid squeezes by him, dropping herself onto the sleeping bag in the corner. She plucks a comic book from the blanket nest and begins reading again, visibly ignoring him but no doubt listening intently.

Maggie’s forehead creases with concern.

“Are you sure?”

“Leg’s fine--”

“But are _you?”_

“I’m headin’ out,” he repeats deliberately.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” she tries again.

“I can take care of myself better than any of these people ‘round here. Don’t need another shadow.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“I ain’t askin,” Daryl dares to say.

Maggie crosses her arms in response, cheek hollowing as she bites the inside of it.

“Daryl…”

He’s not stirring for an argument and that’s exactly what Maggie’s prepared for. She didn’t let Glenn go off alone and she won’t let Daryl, either. And Jesus is still eyeing him from Maggie’s bed, silently interested, hoping to be so damn helpful all the time. Just _waiting_  to be asked along…

Daryl groans in defeat.

“You want squirrel?” he directs to Jesus, puzzling the younger man with a such a random question.

Jesus cocks his head, huffing a breathy laugh.

“What?”

 _“Squirrel._ You want some or not? That’s what I’m headin’ out for. Gonna hunt.”

Maggie’s arms drop to her sides as she regards the two of them carefully. Daryl ignores her and studies the slow spreading smirk on Jesus’s face instead.

“You’re gonna cook for me?” he asks.

“Doubt you could do it right.”

“Okay, Daryl.” Jesus agrees, hopping to his feet and clasping his bare hands in front. “I’d love to hunt squirrel with you.”

And there’s that shit-eating grin again, as if Daryl asking him to tag along on a hunt equated to some god damned _dinner date._ His skin suddenly feels uncomfortably warm.

“There,” he tells Maggie, eager to exit the stuffy room. “Be back soon.” He twists around, taking long strides to the door, stopping when he yanks it open to look down at Enid through his matted hair. “And you best not go runnin’ off again.”

“Whatever,” she drones with a roll of her eyes. But Daryl knows she won’t leave Maggie at Hilltop alone. She cares too much to do that now.

With a grunt at Maggie’s shouted warning of __be careful__ , Daryl exits Barrington House and heads straight for the trailers knowing that Jesus will want to grab his gear before exiting. The Hippie Ninja has stuck ti wearing his daggers inside the walls, just in case, but the rest of his get-up -- the coat, the gloves, and that stupid hat -- are only put to use outside of the colony.

Jesus tells Daryl he can come in, but Daryl shakes his head and turns his back on the trailer, looking up at the slowly lightening sky. He sighs when he hears the quiet pattering from beyond the door left ajar. There’s no reason why he couldn’t go into Jesus’s little trailer, maybe nose around a bit. He probably doesn’t have much of worth, no one really does, but it would be interesting to at least peek at. And yet, he can’t bring himself to step inside that personal space, as if doing so would _mean something._ It’s dumb and it’s weird and it’s… _confusing._ His head hurts just thinking about this.

Jesus doesn’t take long anyway, no doubt picking up the pace so as not to keep Daryl waiting. He comes back out with his coat and hat on, his fingers still wiggling into his gloves. He looks a little like some kind of hipster house burglar. And Daryl snorts at _that_ thought. The questioning brow from Jesus goes unacknowledged.

They pass through the gates without much resistance, the young man named Dante an assured ally thanks to Maggie. He had simply asked where they were going, telling them to be careful when Jesus had divulged that Daryl was going to teach him how to hunt. The other guard, however, still seemed suspicious of Daryl as well as any of the Alexandrians that stuck around. It didn’t matter much to Daryl what they thought.

Their boots squelch against the muddy pathway as they cut across into the overgrown dry grass and weeds, continuing their adjacent path towards the line of trees in the near distance.

They listen to the whispered sound of nature for the most part, wading through the overgrowth as daybreak turns to full morning. Daryl’s fingers ache to hold his crossbow, but all he has is a knife strapped to his hip and a slingshot pressed into his palm. It’ll have to do and he’s sure it will, so long as they actually find some critters scurrying around the woodland.

Despite his proclivity for the quiet, it’s Daryl that utters the first word, probably because having Jesus stay silent for so long feels unnatural.

“How many d’you get yesterday?”

Jesus hums in thought, gloved fingers tucking a shorter strand of hair away from his eye, his knitted hat keeping it in place behind an ear.

“Six? Kal, Eduardo, Mandy, Samuel, Andy, Marco, and Bertie. Maggie spoke to Dante, Brianna, Arnold, and Marco. You went with Earl and Harlan?”

“Yeah. And a couple guys named Louie and Larry.”

“I hope you didn’t taste their wine,” Jesus says lightly, following Daryl down the small drop-off.

“Wasn’t gonna try that shit. Didn’t smell right.”

“Dante’s the only one brave enough to taste it for them.”

 _“Brave,”_ Daryl scoffs, though not without amusement. “That means stupid.”

Daryl reaches out an arm and smacks at a tree branch as they reach the forest, his boots crunching against dead leaves and twigs. The weather is only now starting to change for the Autumn season they’ve been living, but it won’t be long until winter hits. He remembers the last one they’d had, before they’d even found the prison. It had been rough, but things had been so much rougher since. It feels as if they’ve lived through a thousand seasons already, losing and losing and losing; people they loved, whatever they tried to gain. And it was happening again with Negan.

“We’ll get a good group,” Jesus says in a much quieter voice than before, following Daryl with even lighter feet atop the crunchy ground. “People will want to help.”

“Enough’s not enough,” Daryl murmurs, keeping his eyes leveled with the higher branches of the trees. “And what we’re gonna lose might be too much.”

“Maybe. _Probably._ But the surest way to fail is to think that we will.”

“That same ol’ appearances bullshit.”

Just like Carol with those stupid sweaters and the constant flow of cookies. Daryl understood what it was for and why it was important, but having to pretend to be so far removed from yourself that it was like putting on a mask? He could never do that.

“Optimism shouldn’t be an appearance, Daryl. I don’t think you’re a cynic at heart, but even if you were, what we’re about to throw ourselves into is something you should believe in. People won’t follow a lie for long. Why else do you think I’m the go-between for Gregory? But more than that, you’ll just get yourself killed, and I really don’t want that to happen.”

Daryl slows his movements, almost halting altogether. He’s used to hearing he’ll be the last man standing, used to thinking he’ll end up alone in the end like he was in the beginning. But losing himself to his own growing cynicism or apathy? Becoming just another death in the crowd, vanished and forgotten? That might scare him even more.

Daryl staggers when Jesus bumps into him, catching himself against a tree trunk, glaring at the younger man through stringy hair. Jesus is leaning against the nearest trunk opposite of him, smiling innocently with his hands raised.

“Sorry,” he says.

Daryl shakes his head. If he could get in and out of Sanctuary carrying Dary’s unconscious ass without much of a problem, then there was no way Jesus would trip over a root or a rock. Unless he hadn’t been paying attention. But no, Jesus is __always__  paying attention, sometimes a little too much for comfort.

Dary straightens himself and begins to walk once more, slingshot in hand, but then he remembers. The prick had done this when they’d first met, ran straight into Rick like it was a clumsy accident, and that’s how he’d swiped the keys. Would he really be so obvious again? Daryl didn’t have anything but slingshot ammo and a box of matches to steal--

He shoves a hand into one pocket, feeling the cloth bag still in place. Then he switches pockets, but instead of feeling the small box right away, his fingers come into contact with a crumpled rectangle of paperboard. Cigarettes? Daryl pulls it from his pocket and sees that, indeed, it’s a pack of smokes. His thumb forces the little flip-top back, revealing its half-empty contents, but there are still quite a few sticking up from the foil.

When he glances up, Jesus is watching attentively. It’s only that moment that Daryl realizes he’d forgotten to even ask Maggie if Tara had left them behind. He’d been so caught up in getting her to let him __leave__ , it’d slipped his mind.

“Tara gave them to me for safe-keeping. I think she wanted me to mess with you a little before handing them over, but…” Jesus shrugs, glancing away almost uneasily. “I figured that was a little _too_  playground, even for me.”

“What d’you mean?” Daryl questions as he shakes the pack and puts it up to his mouth, pulling a cigarette out between his lips. Daryl already knows Jesus’s stance on the matter, but he offers him one anyway, shoving it into his pocket and replacing it with the matchbox when Jesus shakes his head to decline.

He strikes the match and lights the tip, shaking out the excess flame. Jesus hasn’t answered him yet, but he’s making eye contact again.

“Nothing,” he says, finally. “I wanted to give them to you now, since you were nice enough to ask me along.”

Daryl shrugs, placing his eye-line back along the trees. The toe of his boot digs into the dirt.

“Don’t know anyone else who woulda come,” he mumbles over the cigarette. But then he pulls it from his mouth and exhales, saying a little more clearly: “You could’ve handed ‘em over like a normal person. Don’t gotta trip all over yourself.”

Jesus pushes from the tree with a grin on his face, seemingly a little more comfortable.

“It’s less fun that way.”

“Bein’ a pain in my ass is _fun?”_

“Well, it could be.”

There’s a glint in Jesus’s eye that seems bright even amongst the shade they’re bathed in. His grin would be devilish if it didn’t look like he was trying to hold back laughter.

Daryl doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about or what’s so funny, and he __definitely__  isn’t about to ask.

“We ain’t gonna find nothin’ if you don’t shut your damn mouth.”

“Then lead the way.”

They trail farther and farther into the woods, keeping on a straight path. He’s seen a few birds flap by, but no real wildlife yet. Daryl keeps his gait slow and careful, trying not to make too many swift motions or too much noise.

Jesus is so silent that Daryl has to check over his shoulder to make sure the asshole is still there. He is, alright; keeping pace with Daryl without getting too far into his space. He meets Daryl’s gaze every time, holding it for as long as he’s able. But Daryl always breaks it quickly and tries to focus on searching the area for squirrel or rabbit or maybe even something better. It’s not as if Hilltop needs it, and Jesus knows that -- he’s indulging Daryl, and Daryl knows __that__  -- but it’s something to do, a chance to get away and be productive on a smaller scale.

A twig snaps, encapsulating the silence. Daryl comes to a stop immediately, turning his head towards Jesus. He’s stopped, too, perfectly silent and still. He meets Daryl’s gaze resolutely, his brows drawn intensely. He’s got a hand on one of his daggers, just as Daryl places one of his on the knife’s hilt.

Another snap. A crunch.

Jesus steps closer to Daryl noiselessly, nodding his head to the side in signal, and then spins around. Daryl follows suit, bumping him, back to back. He shoves the slingshot back into the waistband of his jeans and reaches for his mouth, pulling the burning cigarette from his lips and pressing the fire to his hand, snuffing it out. He grimaces, inhaling deeply at the blooming pain, ignoring the cluster of scars that have begun to form across his skin. The snuffed butt drops to the forest floor, lost within the dirt and leaves.

Fumbling, shuffling. He wonders if it’s the Saviors, if they’re nearby, hiding in wait just to screw with him. He’s so busy listening for the sound of carefully crafted human motions that he doesn’t notice the geek lurching forward until Jesus’s back leaves his.

He jerks around then, watching Jesus lunge at the decomposing body, slashing up towards the sky and then kicking out, forcing the permanently dead corpse to fly back.

Groans, loud now to his ears, continue closer. Daryl speeds forward, hopping on the spot and then reaching, grabbing the few strands of hair left on the balding head and yanking to the side, slamming the blade of his knife down through the temple. The body gets tossed away, the hair he’d ripped out from the scalp being shaken from around his fingers. But that’s not all. There are more stumbling through the trees, their sights set on the two living bodies standing feet away, seeking their heat and fresh scent.

He feels Jesus press up to him again, glances back for a second to see the dual daggers in hand, and then they’re both moving.

There’s a familiar rush of adrenaline, but no real sense of panic or fear. It’s reflex, it’s routine, to kick and slash and slam. To kill. To protect. To __survive__. It’s what he’s done all his life. He wonders how new it is to Jesus, if it’s only in _this world_ that he’s experienced all of these emotions.

The tread of his boot slams into a torn stomach, his hand grabbing the back of a lumpy head to slam it to the trunk of a tree -- once, twice, three times; until there’s nothing left but flattened skull and squished, decaying flesh. His knife delves into brain, brain, brain.

And for every twitch and turn Daryl makes, Jesus dances around him, practiced and graceful with blood splattered across his cheek. He spins, his leg high in the air, foot cutting through the breeze and smashing into the crown of a dead head. He slashes out with his left hand, planting his right on the walker falling to the ground to turn the momentum into a vault to the next, jamming his own blade into a snarling face.

As Daryl sweeps his foot to knock his next target to the floor, stomping in its caved head, he looks up through sweaty strands of hair to see Jesus pull one down to his knee and then extend the kick out. Jesus, the ninja he is, knocks the swaying body into the nearest tree, ending its second life with a piercing jab.

Daryl takes a breath. In and out, slow and shaky. Jesus uses the back of his gloved hand to clear hair from his own face, his chest rising and falling just as swiftly.

“Showoff,” Daryl rasps. He can’t think of anything else to say. All words have escaped him at the show he’d just witnessed.

“So are you.” Jesus smiles, nodding with a knowing expression. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

 _Whatever,_ Daryl doesn’t say. His eyes flicker to the blood smeared on Jesus’s fair skin, and he reaches for his back pocket, grasping at the rag that’s no longer there. He’d never replaced the one he’d lost at Sanctuary. He could just… say something, like a __normal person.__  But he and Jesus aren’t normal. Who is any more?

He licks his own dirtied thumb and totters forward, pressing it to the younger man’s cheek. He rubs awkwardly, smearing the stain, and so he re-sheaths his knife and uses the other hand to clean it the rest of the way, his movements increasing in roughness the longer Jesus stares with his big, clear eyes. He doesn’t seem to mind Daryl’s sudden mothering-- or, if he does, he makes no mention of it. Maybe he _does_  mind, but is too nice to say anything.

Daryl swallows. He sniffs and gives one last stroke of his thumb, stepping away when the only thing left of the splatter is a pink undertone. He wipes the remaining wetness on his pants and chews his lip, flickering his gaze from the litter of dead bodies to the dumbstruck etchings that create Jesus’s expression. His irises don’t look so blue, up this close. They’re darker in the shadows, Daryl observes, with flecks of green taking predominance. A hue shift to match the scenery around them. Like a damn chameleon, that’s what Jesus was. Too many sides, too many shades unknown. But that doesn’t have to mean _complicated._

 _“Daryl,”_ Jesus whispers. Daryl glances to the mouth that had formed his name, then follows the line the gloved fingers are pointing towards.

It’s a squirrel, scurrying up the bark of the tree, twisting all around until it bounds over to a branch. Daryl grabs the slingshot and reaches into his pocket, digging around until his fingers loosen the pouch and come into contact with a smooth object. With a ball bearing clasped between thumb and index finger, Daryl leans to the side, keeping track of the squirrel’s scuttling until it bolts.

He waves Jesus forward with his slingshot, trying to keep sight of the animal with quick and even strides. It darts around, zipping to another tree, and then another still. His hand goes up to stop Jesus from coming further.

Daryl’s stance shifts into something more predatory. The circular ammo goes into the leather strap and the slingshot rises up, his arm taking position. The bands get pulled back as he readies the shot, very carefully adjusting his aim. He takes one last breath and then… he lets it fly. The squirrel drops.

He’s glad to see his aim isn’t rusty.

The animal is no longer spasming when he gets over to it, just lies on dirt and twigs, dead. Daryl bends over and grabs it by the tail, holding it up for inspection. Jesus steps up to Daryl’s side and peers at it, too, equal parts disgusted and interested. So Daryl moves the carcus to rest inches away from Jesus’s face, quietly impressed when the younger man doesn’t flinch or blink.

“I’ve never had squirrel,” he says. Jesus reaches out to gently move the little body away from his face, prompting Daryl to drop it back down at waist level. “What does it taste like?”

“Like squirrel.”

Jesus snorts. “Wow, I can’t believe it.”

“C’mon. Maybe we’ll find another.”

Deeper and deeper through the trees they go, listening and watching for threats and small animals. There’s a walker here and here, dispatched by Daryl or Jesus with ease, though Jesus seems to allow Daryl the honor more often than not. Trying not to step on his toes.

He’s quiet the rest of the way, too. Observing Daryl as if he were actually being taught something, so Daryl takes it upon himself to do just that. After he shoots down another squirrel, he hands the slingshot over to Jesus and indicates that he should lead the way. The younger man doesn’t seem as confident as before, but he cooperates and mimics Daryl’s silent, predatory prowl through the brush.

He stops when Daryl presses a hand over his shoulder, looking towards the bird that had just fluttered to rest atop a branch. Jesus’s nose scrunches when he frowns.

“You ain’t gonna hit it,” Daryl says, “but show me what you got.”

Once again, Jesus mimics Daryl’s earlier stance, grabbing the ball bearing he’s handed and placing it into the leather. He pulls back the bands, straightening his arm, but Daryl grabs his elbow before he can let loose. He kicks Jesus’s boot with his own, tapping it until the foot angles out. Then Daryl pulls at Jesus’s elbow to force more tension into the bands, moving his hand up to then grasp Jesus’s wrist where he steadies the hold.

It takes Jesus a moment even after Daryl steps back to let the metal ball fly. He scares the bird rather than hits it, as Daryl had figured would happen, but he’d seen the ammo bounce off the tree and how close Jesus had gotten to the target is rather impressive.

“Ain’t too shabby,” he says, taking back the slingshot into his own hand.

The hippie ninja toys with his gloves again, pulling them up towards his wrists idly.

“So, are your preferred weapons crossbows and slingshots?”

“Crossbow, yeah. Haven’t used a slingshot since I was a kid.”

“Okay, _now_  you’re showing off.”

Daryl’s mouth twitches, the tiniest bit smug for once.

“Nah. Just takes practice. You wanna borrow it?”

“No thanks. I’ll stick with knives.”

“And your kung-fu ninja shit?”

Jesus smiles, and if Daryl isn’t mistaken then he’d say it was somewhat _fondly._ He looks as if he wants to correct Daryl, even parts his lips to do so, but ends up closing his mouth and shaking his head.

“Sure,” he says instead. “I prefer the ninja shit.”

Daryl starts to walk again, his trajectory pointing back to where they had come from. Jesus follows without question, keeping stride by Daryl’s side rather than behind him.

“How’d you learn it?” he asks, genuinely curious. He holds the two squirrels in one hand while he chews on the nail of another. Jesus might look ridiculous doing what he does, but Daryl can’t deny it’s effective. And okay, it does look a __little__  bad-ass.

“My dad, mostly,” Jesus says conversationally, but there’s an invisible wall blocking further details on that specific subject. Daryl can sense it in a snap. “Then other things, here and there. And like you said: Practice.”

His shoulder brushes Daryl’s when he steps out of the path of a hanging branch. He doesn’t add back the distance after, Daryl notices, deciding to keep the close proximity. He side-eyes Jesus curiously.

“You like hunting, then?”

“I’unno. Don’t always, I guess. But it’s necessary and I’m good at it.”

“It’s a valuable skill. I’m not too bad at tracking, but the killing aspect could use some work. I did catch a rabbit once, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Before I found Hilltop. It was probably luck more than anything, but I set a trap and it worked. I haven’t had to do anything like that since becoming part of a community. It’s interesting to watch someone who knows what they’re doing, with a slingshot no less.”

“Ain’t no big thing,” Daryl mumbles, hunching in on himself a little. Jesus’s shoulder keeps brushing his, his sleeve rubbing against Daryl’s skin.

“It is for the people who wish they knew how.”

Daryl steps over the misshapen circle of bodies they’d left behind hours ago, looking for the break in the treeline.

“They can learn.”

“They’re afraid to be out here.”

“You ain’t.”

Jesus pauses his response, though his strides still match Daryl’s. He can just imagine the cogs turning in that head, figuring out what to say and what not to say. Daryl doesn’t think they’ve ever talked to each other this much, but there are still barriers in place. On both sides.

“I’m not afraid to be out here, that’s true. But being out here means there’s a possibility of losing something or someone…” Daryl remembers how upset Jesus had looked when he realized his people had been in danger, how it must have taken everything in him not to betray Rick’s orders and follow them inside. Jesus drags some hair away from his face as he says, _“That_  is what I’m afraid of.”

“You lose a lot?” Daryl inquires, even though he knows he _shouldn’t._ This is not the sort of small talk Jesus had been aiming for and it’s not the sort of question __Daryl__  would even want to answer. But he can’t help it. There’s an air of mystery about Jesus that Daryl isn’t used to coming up against.

“I guess…” Jesus breathes, lowering his eyes to the ground. “Yeah.”

Daryl knows that tone, the defeat that lingers. He nods, not knowing what else to do, and swallows through the harsh constriction of his throat.

“Me too.”

* * *

 

They break through the trees not long after, entering the overgrowth once more. The sun is high in the sky, but the air is marginally cooler than it was before, sweeping up the stray leaves around them. Daryl had Jesus collect some fallen twigs and rocks on the way out, for the fire he was getting ready to start. It had to be close to noon now and he was starving. Two squirrels, one for each. It’d hold him over for at least a little while.

They stop at the edge of the muddy pathway, Jesus dropping his items to the ground, following them by dropping to his knees. He creates a little build for the fire, which Daryl makes easier by offering his box of matches. With a strike and a patient transfer of flame, their little campfire is lit.

Daryl plops himself down into the grass a little ways away and pulls his knife out. He whistles at Jesus, who turns his gaze away from the fire to catch Daryl nodding him over. He sits himself down beside Daryl, knee to knee, and watches him skin and gut the small animal right across the grass. It takes a while to get through the first one, as Daryl tries to go slow enough for Jesus to actually learn something; it takes even longer to get through the second because he wants Jesus to do it with his own bare hands.

He’s quiet and efficient, and he doesn’t complain. And it gives Daryl a moment to just _look,_ to observe the way Jesus had been doing to him their entire outing.

Jesus has a full, scratchy-looking beard that makes his young features appear more mature. The length of his light, straight hair is staggered, with strands at his cheekbones, his chin, and a little past his shoulders. And speaking of shoulders, his aren’t very broad, are more slim like the rest of him. But his slight build is probably sinewy under all those baggy clothes; it would have to be powerful in order to do all that he does. His nose is on the smaller side, with a deep slope and more of a pointed tip. His mouth looks like its stained pink.

He’s -- Well, he’s not bad looking. And a lot of people must notice, which is probably why they flock to him even when they don’t have any pertinent issues. People used to come up to Daryl at the prison, for the brief moment that things had been __good,__  and try to shoot the shit __especially__  when he had other things to do. It had been almost nice, to be involved and have people interested beyond finding out the things you could do for them. Not many people approach him anymore, which is just as fine. But Jesus __does__  and Daryl keeps trying to figure out why. General friendliness? He seems to get along well with Maggie. And he’s said he liked Rick and the gang.

“What’s on your mind?”

Jesus’s soft voice breaks Daryl away from his thoughts, pulling him present. He looks away, irrationally panicked, as if he’d just been caught. _Staring,_ yeah, but that wasn’t a crime… and Jesus wasn’t acting like it _was_ one, Daryl just--

“Why you call yourself Jesus?”

“I told you, my friends used to call me that.”

“Yeah, but why?”

Jesus shrugs, looking at his bloodied hands. Daryl wishes he had a rag to offer him, but he doesn’t and so Jesus wipes them off against his cargo pants.

“My hair got long, I grew a beard, and suddenly I looked like the typical depiction of Jesus Christ. But I guess it really stuck because of what people saw _in_ me. I like to keep the peace when I can and stand up for the things I feel are right. It’s a name people won’t forget, and if it’s also something they can look up to, then I don’t mind.”

“Then why ain’t you their leader?”

Jesus laughs, wiping his knife against his pants as well, and then leans away briefly to sheath it.

 _“That_  is a responsibility I don’t want to undertake. I like staying behind the scenes, scouting and bringing things back. The arrangement with Gregory has worked since it began. I just wish that… sometimes… he was a little more willing to get his hands as dirty as the rest of us.” He smiles wryly, hair draping like a curtain when he turns his head to face Daryl. “But, as he likes to remind us all daily, he’s the boss.”

“For now.”

“For now,” Jesus agrees.

He pushes his squirrel meat towards Daryl for him to start cooking, smiling appreciatively when Daryl passes on the one he’d been exposing to the licking flames this whole time. Jesus picks up a piece, gives it a quick inspection, and then pops it into his mouth. The way his face twists has Daryl chuckling.

“So, it tastes like squirrel…” he says between a mouthful. He swallows the piece and bites into another.

“You’ll get used to it,” is all Daryl supplies as he continues to cook his own lunch.

Jesus grunts.

“I really hope not.” He grabs another bite, taking his time swallowing it down before he speaks again. “What types of animals have you hunted?”

“Squirrel, rabbit, deer, buck, armadillo, coyote, owl, raccoon, woodpecker, beaver, goose, fox, snake…” Daryl rattles off, squinting in thought. He’s hunted a lot of animals in his time, he definitely can’t recall how many. “Went after a bear, once.”

“Really? And how did that end up?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Didn’t catch the bastard. Got a couple of arrows in ‘em, then ran like hell. Ain’t worth the trouble.” He toes at a rock with his boot, tucking his chin closer to his chest so his hair blocks his face. He hesitates, unsure if he should say it or not. He’s not sure why, maybe it’s the rarity of such a relaxed atmosphere, but something compels him to. “Wanted to hunt a chupacabra.”

“Are you-- You’re serious.”

“I fuckin’ am. I saw the damn thing one time, swear I did. It weren’t ‘cause of no shrooms--”

“Wait… you were on shrooms?” Jesus sounds __far__  too amused at Daryl's past plight. He scowls.

“I know what I saw,” he snaps like he has a dozen times before. “The little blood sucker was right there, right in front of me. Even uglier than Merle.” The name slips from his tongue and he freezes for a moment, sucking in a breath and rambling on before Jesus can ask about _that._ “Tried to go after it later. Never saw it again. But I __know--__ ”

“Hey, I believe you,” Jesus tells him, all amiable and shit. He even knocks elbows with him like their best friends or something.

Daryl nods his head back, peering at Jesus from the side. He huffs.

“You think I’m just some crazy redneck who got high and hallucinated an urban legend. Don’t gotta pretend.”

 _“Daryl,”_ Jesus coos with a laugh, scrubbing at his beard. “People die and come back to life. Corpses literally walk the earth among us. If you say you saw some kind of vampire dog, then I believe you. There’s probably a million things out there that we don’t know about.”

“Yeah, well… you believe in bigfoot, too?”

Jesus raises a brow, smirking again.

“A big, hairy monkey-man that lives in the woods and possibly likes beef jerkey? I’d say that’s par for the course. Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t seen him yet.”

“He wouldn’t be ‘round here,” Daryl mumbles, a little embarrassed that he’s even entertaining this idea. “S’posed to live up north.”

“Oh?”

Peeking over, Daryl sees that Jesus’s shoulders are shaking in silent laughter. His face burns as hot as the fire in front of them.

“Shuddup!” he grumbles, shoving Jesus away from him. The younger man falls to the side without resistance, but then pushes back up into his sitting position with ease.

“I’m not laughing at you, Daryl. I promise.”

“Fuck off.”

“I mean it! Look, you’re just--” Whatever word that’s on the tip of his tongue, he doesn’t say. He presses his lips together tightly, cutting himself off, and looks towards the dwindling fire as Daryl let’s his squirrel chunks burn on the spit. “You’re funny,” he finally settles on lamely. “I do actually believe you.”

“Whatever. Don’t matter.”

Daryl eats his squirrel bits as Jesus sits beside him idly, his hands placed behind him to hold his weight at an angle, his own squirrel bits long gone so as not to be wasteful. Jesus lets Daryl eat in peace, not saying another word until his fingers are being licked clean.

“You asked why people call me Jesus, but my question is: why don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Not to my face. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call me anything that wasn’t asshole, hippie, or a variation of the two. Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” Daryl disagrees, but maybe that’s not the full truth. It _does_  feel strange to call him that, especially to the man himself. Does Alex call him Jesus? On second thought, he doesn't want to know. The whole thing is just sketchy.

“Earl calls me Paul, you know. My _actual_ name.”

“Yeah, well you don’t look like a Paul.”

Jesus laughs, stretching his arms out over his head.

“Okay, then what should someone named Paul look like?”

“Shit, I dunno. Just not like you.”

Daryl pokes at the leftover squirrel pelt, picking it up to give it a look. Jesus lifts his own and offers it to Daryl, using the exchange as an excuse to look him in the eye.

“Call me Paul.”

Daryl accepts the pelt silently and stands. He’s itching for another cigarette, but he doesn’t want to waste them.

“Put the fire out,” he tells Jesus as he attempts to tuck the bloody, gunky pelts into his belt. “Gotta head back now. Need more than a handful of people ‘fore tomorrow.”

* * *

 

It’s afternoon when they walk back through the gates of Hilltop. Daryl, covered in blood and dirt and carrying squirrel pelts, starts to head towards the medical trailer at first, but then soon thinks better of it. Carson probably won’t like him trailing filth into a place where people need to go for help. So he follows Jesus to Barrington house for a quick clean up instead.

Jesus opens the doors to one of the bathrooms, gesturing for Daryl to go first. He steps inside, dropping the pelts onto the pristine counter-top just because he knows it’ll piss Gregory off.

“Do you want to shower?”

“Nah.”

“You sure?”

Carol would make him, if she were here. She’d threaten to hose him down again and would probably make good on that promise, too.

“Maybe later,” he amends, shrugging.

The tap begins to run. His hands go under the streaming water, fingers rubbing at mucky skin. A mix of brown and red swirls in the pool getting sucked down the drain. Once his hands are clear enough, he grabs the bar of soap and suds up his palms, scrubbing over his face.

He can feel Jesus still standing there, hesitating, and can hear when the boots start to creek against the wood. He swipes at his eyes with his sleeves and looks up, vision still a little blurry.

“You gonna talk to _him?”_

Jesus takes a step backwards, leaning against the door frame to peer inside the bathroom. He doesn’t look as if he’d been expecting such a question. Daryl hadn’t really expected to ask it either. He likes to shove his own foot in his mouth when Jesus is around, it seems.

“Who? Alex?” Jesus asks. He swallows when Daryl bobs his head. “I already know he’ll stand with us, but… yeah. I’ll talk to him. If he’s around.”

“He still runnin’ off?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t see him this morning, but we left pretty early. He’s probably around.”

“And the other guy?”

Daryl’s teetering on the edge of __nosy__  now, but he just wants to make sure that there isn’t any interpersonal drama that could jeopardize their objective. That’s all.

“Yes, I’ll talk to Wes, too.” Finally, he sounds a little ruffled. “Don’t worry about.”

Daryl splashes the rest of the soap off his face and pulls the neck of his shirt up to use as a towel.

“I ain’t _worried,”_ he says, voice muffled by the cloth.

“You seem oddly invested.”

There it is again, the teasing. He glowers, letting his shirt drop into its place against his torso.

“Just makin’ sure you’re not screwin’ around.”

“Literally or figuratively?”

Daryl grabs a pelt and tosses it at Jesus, though it’s easily dodged. The younger man pops into view again once it hits the ground.

“I’mma burn that shitty hat if you don’t get the fuck on.”

“No need to be hostile.”

Jesus picks the pelt up from the floor and steps forward, into the airy space of he bathroom. He stops a mere three feet away, dropping the furry object into Daryl’s open palm. And just as Daryl starts to look up, Jesus pulls the hat off his head and pulls it snugly atop Daryl’s, as far down as it will go.

Daryl jerks back and reaches up immediately, pushing the knit up and off one of his eyes, allowing himself to see that Jesus has already disappeared. He hadn’t even made a sound.

Daryl shakes his head and yanks the hat from his head, looking down at it clasped in his hand. It’s faded and dusted with dirt, but otherwise fully intact. He should burn the damn thing, just like he said he would, but that seems more than a little spiteful and unnecessary. What’s he supposed to do with it, though? He’s not about to chase Jesus around to make him take it back.

Daryl shoves the dumb beanie into his vest pocket, grabs his squirrels, and exits the bathroom, taking the steps two at a time. He’s not going to give it back until morning, if Jesus or Paul or __whoever__  is lucky. Unless he comes to get it in the middle of the night. Daryl snorts at the image of Jesus sneaking into the infirmary just to snatch back the hat he’d left with Daryl in the first place. He doesn’t know what the hell is going on anymore.

* * *

 

Maggie slides a ripped sheet of paper across the counter, allowing Daryl a chance to see properly. He picks up the yellow, crumpled sheet and holds it to his eye.

The kitchen is mostly dark, save for the natural light streaming through the window, and even that has gotten blocked by the overcast skies. But he can see the tiny, scratched names clearly. Earl, Dante, Kal, Eduardo, Mandy, Brianna, Bertie, Andy, Harlan, Larry, Louie, Wes, Alex… Daryl looks up when he scans those names, meeting Jesus’s steady gaze. He’d talked to them, just like he said he would. He’s curious about the outcome of that, he can’t deny.

Continuing to read, the names of the Hilltop colonists trail on and on, bleeding onto the back of the page. At a skimmed count, Daryl figures there must be at least 130 names scribbled here. It’s less than half of the community as a whole, but still far more than had been expected and a sizable edition for Alexandria and whoever the Kingdom and this King Ezekiel allowed. All these people in not even 3 full days. It feels good to get shit done.

“Rick should be comin’ tomorrow,” Maggie says in a hushed tone. “I’m hopin’ Glenn and Tara with get back tonight.”

“Tonight or mornin’, they’ll be here.”

“If Rick brings Sasha and Rosita, we can start the training. We need as much time as possible.”

“He won’t forget,” Daryl assures, nodding at Jesus. Jesus nods back, clasping his hands tightly in front of his abdomen, a gesture Daryl has come to consider as another possible nervous habit or another one of his ticks. “You and Rosita got the hand to hand crap. Me and Sasha’ll go for the guns. Gonna need both to get these people ready.”

“Our time frame’s cuttin’ down.” Maggie’s voice draws their attention. She takes the slip of paper back from Daryl and tucks it into her pocket. “It won’t be long ‘til Negan shows up for the supplies.”

“We have time--”

The door to the kitchen bursts open, interrupting Jesus mid-sentence. The three turn to see a frantic Dante buzzing by the door.

“Gregory’s looking for you, Jesus. He _knows._ He knows and he’s pissed!”

Jesus glances to Maggie and then to Daryl, his expression warring between consternation and serenity. He settles on the latter when addressing Dante, palm out and fingers spread in the usual fashion.

“It’s okay, Dante. Calm down.”

“He’s telling everyone that there isn’t going to be a war and they just need to go about their business as usual!”

Jesus opens his mouth again, but decides against speaking, clenching his jaw. Daryl and Maggie rush after his trailing figure, slipping past Dante, who watches them nervously.

Maggie lags behind as they hop off the steps, unsure if she should directly involve herself between Jesus and Gregory, but Daryl sets his sights straight for the blacksmith stall the young and old men stand in front of.

“Is what I’m hearing true?” Gregory demands. “You’re gathering these people up to fight a war we have no business even entertaining? You’d put these people in danger, Jesus, and for what? Everything was fine until _they_  came along!”

Gregory’s bony finger points steadily at Daryl, who’s stopped a few feet away from Jesus’s side. The old man has a hard time keeping his face from getting too red, unused to losing his calm and cool in front of the people suddenly glued to the spots all around.

“Giving up half of our supplies is fine? Watching a kid get murdered to scare us into compliance isfine? Nothing about our situation with Negan is __fine__ , Gregory, but we accepted it because we had to and because it was our only sane option at the time. We don’t have to accept it anymore.” Jesus spreads his arms out wide, fingers pointing to the colonists around him. “Look around you. Look at these people, __your__ people. You’re supposed to keep them safe, and safety at the hands of Negan is just another lie. Like your leadership. Like you __caring__  for the welfare of anyone here other than yourself.”

Gregory scoffs at Jesus’s harsh words, his throat bobbing with a sharp swallow. He gestures outward, too, but his reach is far less, inferior. He doesn’t have the will to open his arms for his own community, not the way Jesus does. He doesn’t have the guts.

“I care a great deal about these people and about this place! I’m keeping them safe by keeping them in line! You want to run off with Rick, with the hoodlum right behind you? Be my guest, Jesus. But you are _not_  taking these people with you to slaughter. They are _mine!”_

Jesus steps forward and Daryl follows, drawn by an invisible tether. Gregory nearly trips as he fumbles to take a step back.

“You rolled over for Negan and the rest of us followed, and now we’re stuck in a situation that could explode at any moment. We have a chance to do something, to help change the world we live in, but you’re too scared. One of Rick’s people died because of us, when they tried to help. They refused to sit by and let one man take over what’s left--”

“That had nothing to do with us and you know it,” Gregory hisses. Daryl can see the way his fingers dig into the belt around his waist, anxiety high in the crisping breeze. “That man died on the way to our doctor, to get help for that young woman right there!” He points to Maggie, where she stands in the distance; arms crossed and chest tight with her inhaled breath. She glares defiantly as Gregory prattles on. “It was their own fault! We took the punishment and so did they! That was on them.”

Daryl stomps forward, enraged at the claims of Abraham dying by his own hand and not the hands of a sick fuck who wanted to play god. The sight of Gregory’s paling face makes Daryl want to spit in his eye, but he freezes when he realizes Gregory isn’t looking at __him__  with fear. No, he’s looking at Jesus with a gaze wide and frightful. Jesus doesn’t lay a finger on him, but his words could cut as sharp as a knife, probably even sharper than the knife the old man had already been shanked with.

“Hilltop stands _with_  Alexandria. As will the Kingdom. The people who choose to fight beside us are doing so of their own volition because they believe that this is what’s _right,_ that this is the way we change our world. Those who don’t, or can’t or won’t, can stay here. They’ll be safe, but they won’t have __you__  to thank for that. They’ll end up with communities who will share rather than steal, and they _won’t_  have to go to bed every night wondering what the lesser of two evils should be. We’re on the same side, Gregory. _All_ of us, including you. So you can hide behind these walls and you can pretend that everything will be just fine no matter the outcome, and the people who stay with you can pretend they didn’t just witness their leader expose himself as the coward he truly is. Because when this is over, you’ll either be answering to us or to Negan, and you should really start thinking about which one of those you prefer.”

Gregory clamps his mouth shut and swallows, Jesus’s words ringing loud and clear as a bell. His eyes flicker away from Daryl as fast as they first land, not staying for long on Jesus either. There are a few murmurs rippling through the gathered crowd, some of disapproval, some of agreement to Jesus’s argument. But no one speaks out to ruin the quiet intensity. Gregory does that all on his own.

The old man sniffs audibly, holding his head up high. He tries for dignified and fails, gaze skittering around Hilltop like a rat looking for an escape. He allows his arms to drop to his sides as he moves forward, stepping around Jesus in a wide swing, and only stopping when he feels he’s far enough away from Daryl’s simmering glare to be safe.

“You’re making a mistake and anyone here -- ANYYONE -- who stands with you and these… these wild anarchists, they’ll pay for it. And we’ll know who’s hands _that_  will be on!”

He rushes away, flapping at the group that parts for him, ready to hide himself inside of Barrington once more. Daryl’s not a fool, he knows this isn’t over; people will still follow Gregory, will look to Jesus and Maggie as if they’d caused the problems they wanted to pretend Negan __didn’t__. But those who would stand with them, they’ll know and they’ll __fight__  to end it all. And if Gregory’s around to see it or not? It won’t matter. His grip on the reigns have disappeared.

Maggie raises her voice to the people, ushering and corralling them, pushing on for normalcy for the time being. She’s leader material, Rick saw that and now Daryl’s seeing it, too. Hilltop would be lucky to have her and Jesus running things. Maybe they will, one day, if they make it through this war.

The sigh Jesus emits is more than just that; it’s exhausted, it’s resigned. Daryl watches as an arm crosses over his chest, the loose ivory shirt billowing in the rush of wind, and the elbow of his other arm rests in his overturned palm. A thumb parts his lower lip in thought.

Daryl steps forward then, into the spot beside the younger man, viewing the angles of his pinched expression. Despite the confidence of what he’d just laid out for Gregory, it looked as if he were feeling anything but. And it was foreign to Daryl, witnessing doubt or anguish on the face of someone who had yet to seem anything other than purely in control. He’d been smug and teasing, calm and logical, capable and determined. But now he just seemed uncertain.

“He’d get it if he wanted to,” Daryl tells Jesus quietly, dropping his gaze down to his mud-caked boots. “He’s too worried ‘bout savin’ his own ass.” When he peeks up at Jesus again, those oceanic eyes are focused entirely on him. “Don’t know how you put up with him this long.”

A ghost of a smile takes hold of his mouth.

“Trust me. I don’t know either.”

* * *

 

Gregory hadn’t resurfaced once since the spectacle at noon. He didn’t make a sound. Daryl never even caught the curtains moving, indicating someone peeking out. Daryl got the feeling that Jesus had humiliated the old man, above all else, and that he was probably plotting some way to assert his authority. Or just plain get back at them.

He could kick them all out, if he wanted. None of them would put up a fight, except Maggie might want to take Carson with her. Hell, Gregory could even tell Jesus to hit the road and the little ninja would just follow them back to Alexandria and bring anyone that wanted to tag along. They’d have a place with Rick. But Daryl knew Jesus wouldn’t abandon Hilltop. It was a nice settlement, protected and well-stocked. No, Gregory wouldn’t do anything to them directly, not unless he wanted to risk his people turning on him fully. The plan to dethrone Negan was still in motion.

Inside Barrington was still silent, with Maggie and Enid and any occupants in the upstairs rooms keeping cautiously quiet after the blowup between figureheads that afternoon. It was evening now and Maggie was impatiently waiting for Glenn’s return, her fear and paranoia doing their damnedest to break through her layer of steel. But she had Enid keeping her company and Daryl didn’t want to step on that. So after checking in to see if she needed anything, Daryl was ready to head back to the infirmary for the night, knowing that Carson would want to change his bandages before things got too hectic with Rick’s awaited arrival.

As Daryl flung the door open to exit into the dusk, he nearly crashed into Jesus.

“Whoa--”

Daryl grunted, stumbling back on his heel. Jesus, half in the shadows, stood calmly. He had his coat and gloves on, but not his hat. Daryl still had it bulging inside his vest pocket.

“Goin’ out?”

“I was thinking about it,” Jesus answers. He takes a step inside, shutting the door behind himself, effectively enclosing both he and Daryl within the dimly lit and eerily quiet entryway. “I was going to check if Maggie wanted me to keep an eye out for Glenn and Tara.”

“They ain’t been gone long. They’re fine. You don’t need to go lookin’.”

It’s not hard to guess that he’s trying to convince himself of this as much as he’s trying to convince Jesus.

Too many bad things could happen out there. They could come across people like the Wolves, or Saviors on the prowl, more cannibals, herds of walkers… Daryl knows Glenn and Tara were both more than capable of taking care of themselves, but the reminder of how easy it was to be rendered completely powerless is still fresh in his mind.

“I know. But it might give Maggie some peace of mind. She doesn’t need the added stress.”

“Better go tell her ‘fore she falls asleep.”

“She’s down for the night? I shouldn’t bother her then.”

Daryl hums, pulling at the collar of the flannel sticking out from beneath his vest. It’s too big, even with the sleeves gone, but it’s soft enough and not overly warm.

Jesus’s eyes rove over Daryl for a moment, darting from the movement of his hand up to his chin and then farther down again. Daryl shifts on his spot, dropping his arm.

“You goin’?”

He thinks about offering to go along, a chance to get out and breathe some fresh air before Rick and everyone else arrives. They’ll have to start training, round everyone up and finalize the details, and then head out once and for all. He could die. __Jesus__ could die. Looking at him standing there with his hands clasped tight and his eyes bright with innocence, Daryl feels a match ignite inside his rib-cage. This guy is important, this guy is _good._ Maybe he’s even a _friend._

“Daryl?”

He blinks, confused with himself and his surroundings for only a moment. His vision clears to take in more than just the face in front of his own, naked in its expression. Nothing else around is worth his attention and the flame from within has swept through Daryl’s pores, caressing his prickled skin.

“What?” he asks dumbly, unsure of whether or not Jesus had been speaking up until this point.

He _never_  spaces out, what the fuck is he doing it for now? There’s too much going on, a hundred thoughts circulating through his brain. If he hadn’t been separated from Beth, if he’d killed Dwight to begin with, if he hadn’t run off, if he’d tried to kill Negan after Abraham got snuffed out beside them; can he help these people learn, can he believe, can he fight this war and stay alive, can he save Rick and Maggie and Tara and Glenn and _Jesus…_

“Follow me,” Jesus directs, his shoulder brushing Daryl’s as he moves past. He looks back as he takes the first few steps, silently willing Daryl to do as he’s asked. Daryl does just that.

The stairs creak from beneath them, one weight and then the other bearing down on each step going up. It doesn’t take them long to reach the top, and then Daryl’s being led down the hall.

They stop in front of a door, one of many, and Jesus taps the wood with the back of his knuckles. They wait a moment and when there’s no answer, he twists the knob and pushes it open.

It’s a bedroom, large and crowded with clothes and tools and bedrolls. There’s a large bed in the middle, covered in blankets and pillows and books. It looks cohesive enough, as if the original decor hadn’t been rearranged too furtively. The big curtains and framed portraits tell stories of the past they don’t often think about anymore.

“This is one of the rooms we didn’t have to convert,” Jesus informs him, gesturing towards the furniture. “It was already a bedroom. Six people share it now.”

“And you just barge right in whenever?” Daryl asks, but he doesn’t stop himself from glancing around. Snooping.

“Not typically. But sometimes its necessary, especially for the vantage points.”

The door clicks shut behind them and Jesus passes by again, peering around the room for a quick inspection. He doesn’t seem too interested in the area however, probably having seen it not too many times to count. But it’s interesting to his own eye, all the history condensed and consumed. He’d never really cared too much about this type of stuff before, and especially not now with what they were living through, but it was always nice to _know._ The things people had been through, the way the rest of the world moved on. There won’t be any history books for them, no reminders outside of blood-stained boots and dulling knives, no explanation of what started this mess or how it’ll end. Just living through it is enough.

“And sometimes,” Jesus continues, striding towards the double doors on the opposite wall, “people just like to stand on the balcony.”

He pulls the doors open, allowing the cool breeze to filter in. The sky looked gray again today, rays of sunlight emerging from behind the blockade of clouds even as the sun begins to set. Jesus steps out onto the faded wood, placing his gloved hands upon the railing. Daryl leans against the pillar beside him, ankles crossing, and squints over his shoulder. He gets a better view of Jesus’s face and hair than he does of Hilltop’s yard.

“If you could do anything in the world right now, what would you do?”

 _Kill Negan_ are the first words at the tip of Daryl’s tongue, but he holds them back. Inhaling the brittle breeze swirling around at this height, Daryl studies the still-open doors, looking beyond the chipped paint to catch sight of his reflection inside the oval mirror hanging above the bed. Even to his own eye, he looks haggard. His hair is dark and shaggy, matted down to his head and beginning to curl at the tips, so limp that the tops of his ears peek out through the mess. The bruises have faded from his face, whatever was left of them blending in with a faded tan and the dirt streaks. Daryl scratches at the thick hairs on his chin and looks down to the boards beneath his boots.

“Ain’t nothin’ to do ‘cept the shit we’re already doin’.”

“Well, sure...” Jesus trails. He tilts his head to the side, looking up at Daryl from his leaning position. “But what about the future? Where do you see yourself?”

“In the ground or on top of it. Killin’ geeks or feedin’ worms. Don’t got many options.”

The younger man’s face becomes pensive as he regards Daryl.

“You’re just thinking about survival.”

“Ain’t you?”

“Yes. But there’s more to it.”

“Not if you’re dead.”

Jesus pushes away from the rail, turning to lean on it, mirroring Daryl against the pillar.

“Are you planning on dying?”

“Ain’t plannin’ on nothin’.”

“Maybe that’s your problem. You’re afraid to move forward.”

“I ain’t afraid of nothin’,” Daryl drawls, but there’s no heat to it, it’s just a simple statement and he knows now he’s no longer fooling himself. He’d said those words to Beth, spat them out in righteous fury, and she’d seen straight through.

Jesus smiles, but there’s nothing amused or smug about it.

“I used to think that… It gets exhausting after a while. Fear is fear. It keeps us alive, but it can just as easily hold us back.”

Daryl doesn’t say anything in reply. He’s not sure __what__ to say. He’s afraid of losing the family he’d built with Rick and Carol and everyone at Alexandria. He’s afraid of losing, losing, losing until he’s the last one standing, knee deep in a pile of ashes. He’s afraid of not being around to see the world they fight so endlessly for. He’s afraid of himself, the things he feels and doesn’t feel, what he does and doesn’t do, the nightmares and the aches and the desperation that cloud him innumerably.

What is Jesus afraid of? What does he see when he closes his eyes at night? What does he hear in his quiet moments? But most importantly, what gives Jesus the hope and the will to get past those fears and continue on, envisioning a world beyond the one they scraped by in now?

Daryl thinks of Deanna then, her views of the world and her desires for the future. She’d been foolish and damn naive, but she’d started to get it, she’d started to see, and yet… she kept herself. She kept that humanity. Like Dale, like Hershel, like Tyreese, like Beth. And that one stray thought, the idea that Jesus would turn out like them, it put a fright inside Daryl that made it hard to breathe.

Daryl twists in his spot jerkily, turning to face Jesus fully. And he looks at him, really looks, and he sees that Jesus __sees,__ that he knows just as much as Daryl does about how the world works. He’s afraid, and yet he was fearless; he’s young and he’s old, wise and innocent and bright. His idealism isn’t a detriment or a weakness, and it won’t get him killed. It will _keep him living._

“What would you do, if you could?” he asks through a mouth dryer than lint.

Jesus’s eyes, wide and studious, dart between Daryl’s own. He takes a deep breath and looks up to the awning, keeping his features soft and thoughtful. Then, he chuckles.

“I don’t know.”

Daryl squints.

“Then what’d you ask me for?”

“I was hoping you would have answered, then I could say I’d do it with you.”

The smile he gives Daryl is spread wide and so genuine that Daryl either wants to punch him again or give in and smile back, something he’s sure he’s forgotten how to do if he ever really knew how to in the first place.

“So what if I said I wanted to go hunt for that chupacabra I saw?”

“I’d say let’s do it, but I’d also ask that we go up north for Bigfoot.”

Daryl’s scowl is a poor imitation of one, his first instinct as a means to cover up the way his mouth wants to curl. He kicks at the side of Jesus’s knee, making the stupid hippie ninja sway.

“I knew you were fuckin’ laughin’ at me.”

“I wasn’t,” Jesus says easily, retaking his positioning against the railing, a little farther into Daryl’s space. As if he wouldn’t notice. “And I’m serious. I’ll try to find some jerky.”

“You’re a little shithead, y’know?”

“I thought I was an asshole.”

“That, too. Prick.”

Daryl reaches into his pocket, fingering the knit cap, then digs deeper to pull out the matchbox. He reaches into the opposite pocket and pulls out the crumpled pack of cigarettes, tearing off the limp flap and dropping it off the balcony. Jesus barely blinks as he watches Daryl pull one out from between his lips, strike the match and light it up. He leans away from the pillar and steps to the railing, shuffling into the space beside Jesus. Daryl looks out onto the yard, roving over the stalls and trailers, the animals and people. Lives worth living and protecting.

“You think this place will last?” he asks.

Because he really isn’t sure. The camp, the farm, the prison, Terminus… all temporary options. Even Alexandria had been touch and go, still is with Negan in the neighborhood, and Daryl wonders if they can keep it safe. If it can stay standing, if Hilltop and Kingdom can continue to grow. He’s tired of shit falling and he’s tired of having to run. He’s so __tired.__

“Kingdoms aren’t destroyed when the castles get burnt to the ground,” Jesus answers softly. “It’s when the people left standing give up or surrender that you lose yourself to what’s out there, trying to take over. We can rebuild, if we have to, or move somewhere else. It’ll work if we’re _together.”_

_If we’re together._

Daryl hunches in on himself, placing two fingers around the cigarette but not yet pulling it from his mouth. He squints out at the wall, seeing beyond it as uncertainty spreads at how personal those words seem to sound. It’s nothing new, nothing that Glenn ad Rick and even Daryl himself hasn’t been saying. But from Jesus’s mouth to Daryl’s ear, it’s like a revelation.

“It’ll work,” Daryl agrees aloud. Smoke spirals from between his lips, carried off by the wind that sways the trees. “We’ll make it work.”

He puts his hand inside his pocket again, digging his fingers into the knit hat. He doesn’t know why Jesus had left it with him in the first place or why he hasn’t yet asked for it back. Daryl shrugs and pulls it out, giving it a once-over. He passes it across the rail.

Looking down to it, Jesus smiles, slow and sweet.

“You didn’t burn it.”

“Yeah, well I said I woulda left you out there, hung up in a tree, but I didn’t do that either.”

Jesus reaches out for the end that’s resting out from under Daryl’s grip, hanging over the railing. And his hand catches Daryl’s fingers, making the skin there feel too warm, too small to fit himself. But Jesus grips the hat from him, gently prying it from his frozen fingertips, and allows his arm to retreat back to his side while Daryl’s stays extended.

When he looks up, so does Daryl.

It makes Daryl think about what he’d seen in that mirror. The man right smack in front of him has full lips where Daryl’s are thin and pinched; he’s got a long, dainty nose where Daryl’s is short and rounded; a full beard to Daryl’s scruff. The smooth, lengthy hair frames Jesus’s face while Daryl’s covers how own. But it’s those eyes, always _those eyes,_ that draws his gaze time after time. They’re cerulean pools, speckled with moss. They’re oceans and forests and storming skies, circles that swallow him whole and keep him afloat somewhere new and uncharted. They’re a stranger’s. They’re a friend’s.

And he looks ridiculous standing here, Daryl thinks, with that line between his brows like he’s trying to understand, __always__  trying to understand, and Daryl wonders what it is that Jesus sees as he’s looking at __him__. What does he see that keeps him staring, scrutinizing, inspecting, watching?What does he __see__? Someone that looks equally ridiculous, probably.

Jesus slips the beanie into one of the many pockets of his pants, keeping his attention downward for several seconds, his fingers curling into a fist. But then his fingers spread out and he looks up, and very slowly, very carefully, he plucks the cigarette from Daryl’s mouth, snuffing it out with his boot after it drops from his long fingers and falls to the floor.

Daryl blinks. And within that slow second, a hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers sliding into the hair hanging there. A shiver racks through his body at the touch, flesh prickling. There’s a thumb pressed to his jaw and cheek, and Jesus leans in close, and then--

And _then._

A mouth presses to his mouth, lips cradling his lips. A soft brush against hard lines. Hair that’s not his own tickles his chin, the hand on his neck squeezing, thumb tracing down his face. His body shivers again, almost violently this time, a shock like ice water to his system despite the temperature being at the opposite end of the spectrum. But Daryl’s stuck in his spot, stranded on an island, unmoving and unsure of what the hell is _happening._ Jesus is… kissing him. __Paul__  is kissing him. Kissing. Kiss… and he’s never… and he _doesn’t…_

There’s no response from him. He forgets how to breathe, for  more than a moment, or perhaps he’s unable to until Jesus pulls back a fraction, separating all points of contact from which they had been connected. Daryl sucks in a sharp breath through his nostrils when Jesus opens his eyes, studying him like he always fucking does. There’s a spark in the gaze bearing down on him, a spark that spreads through Daryl’s bones like wildfire, like lighting and metal. Electric. And he doesn’t know what this emotion is, couldn’t name it if he tried, but he damn well _feels_ it just as clearly as he sees it reflecting on the younger man’s face. How does that work? How could he know?

Jesus had just kissed him, a simple touch of mouths that meant too much for too little. This __man__ , this little hipster house burglar hippie ninja __asshole__ , had just put his hands on Daryl and kissed him like it was the easiest, most logical thing to do in that very moment in time. They’d been talking and then they’d stopped, and then he couldn’t breathe and he’d been _kissed._ For the first time. For the _last_  time.

Daryl’s embarrassed. He’s angry and ashamed. He’s confused.

He shoves Jesus hard, knocking him out of his personal space but not sending him onto his ass like he’d been imagining. He notes the expression on Jesus’s face for a moment; the lack of surprise, the swell of disappointment, and then detachment. A blank slate. It makes him even angrier.

He lunges forward, getting fistfuls of Jesus’s shirt and coat, and hauls the smaller man towards him, nose to nose.

“I have to say, I’ve never gotten this kind of reaction--”

It’s not a tease, not a joking sentiment. He sounds flustered, but his movement to grip onto Daryl’s wrists is calm and unwaveringly patient.

Daryl yanks the hand away as if he’d been burned by the leather, balls his own into a fist and swings. Reflexive, brash. Wrong. Wrong like how Jesus had kissed him, _wrong_  like-- _No,_ his thoughts supply, an echo in an empty hallways. That’s Merle talking, that’s his father. That’s not him. But it is; right now, it is. It’s _him,_ red in the face, throwing that punch.

Jesus blocks him with no problem, knocking Daryl’s arm out of the air. The younger man side-steps and shoves, forcing Daryl into the wall. He uses his palms to stop his face from smashing into brick.

Then he whirls around, heart pounding, gut twisting, but he can’t move any further because Jesus is still __there__. His forearm bars Daryl to the wall with controlled pressure and a warning frown that looks nothing like the stripped expression he’d seen moments ago.

“I can see I overstepped--”

“Get your hands off me!” Daryl shouts, shoving out again. Jesus is either stronger than he looks or is far more determined to keep Daryl pinned to the wall than Daryl is to break away, because he barely moves an inch.

“Look, I’m sorry. I thought-- You’re really hard to read, okay?”

Daryl throws his arm up and across the one pinning him, bending his fingers at the knuckle until only his middle finger and thumb are sticking out, inches from Jesus’s face. It’s a rarity, how unamused the man in front of him is.

 _“Daryl._ Please.”

“Leave me the hell alone,” he seethes, and he feels sick inside for being so callous. “I ain’t…”

“What?” Paul demands, forehead wrinkling I frustration. “You’re not what?”

Daryl’s mouth presses into a fine line, his voice getting lost somewhere along the way. The thought lies unfinished within his scattered thoughts.

He doesn’t make to move or attack again and so Jesus drops his arm back into its place at his side, although he doesn’t step out of Daryl’s space just yet. Even if it looks like that’s exactly what he wants to do.

“It should never have mattered. And in this world--”

“Your next world _bullshit_ again--”

“In this world, it matters even less. With so many things to worry about, you’re really gonna make this one of them?”

“I ain’t interested, you prick.”

Jesus stares into him so deeply, Daryl swears he feels it shake his soul. His gaze is fire, his gaze is ice; his gaze is searching, searching, searching, and then he asks the one question Daryl suddenly fears the answer to.

“In me? Or in general?”

 _In general. In you. In any fucking thing on this damn earth._ The words don’t sound right and so he can’t say them, and the silence remains. Choking him. His chin quivers, forcing out a syllable.

“Both,” he spits out. But that moment of hesitation is unerasable.

And Jesus nods like he’s heard something he agrees with, like that one word speaks for a thousand. And Daryl isn’t sure himself if it’s a rejection or an affirmation to Jesus; or if those two things are one in the same. If they’re different. If it matters beyond the here and now.

“Okay,” he breathes. _“Okay._ Fair enough.” His eyes trace over Daryl’s face, slowly, dropping down to the floor as he takes two steps back. All the oxygen seems to follow him away. “Sorry for kissing you, then. Misunderstanding. It won’t happen again.”

Jesus doesn’t wait for Daryl to give a response, no doubt figuring he wouldn’t get one anyway. He steps through one doorway and then another, closing himself away from Daryl with a resounding __click__. There’s no relief now that he’s gone and Daryl is left alone, there’s only a thick knot in his gut and a tightness in his chest that has him too ashamed to look at anything around him. He touches his mouth, a thumb between his lips, pressing against the front of his clenched teeth. His heart beats like a drum inside his ears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays/Happy Saturday. I hope everyone's been good. Here, have some Desus! 
> 
> Things are starting to happen!! A lot of this story revolves around the war with Negan and how Daryl and Jesus sort of develop with each other while all of this is happening. Comic plot lines and whatnot. But I think there's a lot of good Desus moments to come (I hope), especially since I'm still working on the last few chapters. And this is inherently fluffier than canon universe anyway because I'm trash for that kind of thing. 
> 
> I'm terrible at trying to edit things. Please forgive me.
> 
> Also, thank you for the kudos and comments so for. Reading what you guys have to say is always special. I'm hype anytime I see a new comment. I like to know what you guys think, whatever that might be! <3


	4. For Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's into winter, but it's hot; I guess I do believe in God  
> But I'll forgive and make it right, if it freezes up tonight  
> So cross your fingers, say a prayer  
> You don't believe, but I don't care  
> You either win it or you don't  
> It happens now unless it won't"
> 
> (for prayer | wye oak)

Having her in front of him, arms wrapped around his back, cheek pressed against his cheek, makes Daryl want to cry. He can feel the tears stinging his eyes as he lifts her feet straight off the ground. She laughs breathlessly and holds on tight, and he remembers the last time they’d been this way, when she’d come back to them, when she’d saved their lives by rocking Terminus with explosive destruction. She was saving Daryl’s still, by just walking through those gates, by just being _alive._

He’d known she was safe and that he would get to see her eventually, but he hadn’t really imaged Rick would be bringing her in the midst of everything. He’d arrived some hours before noon, Michonne and Sasha and Rosita in tow, and they’d led a man with dreadlocks and bodyguards through Hilltop’s gates. But there Carol had been, dragging up the rear, looking more and more like her old self, and his legs had propelled him forward the moment he’d spotted her.

_I missed you,_ he wants to say. _Don’t go nowhere again._  But the only sound he can make is a gasping breath.

“Oh, Pookie. You showered,” are the first words out of her mouth. Her voice is filled with a laughter he hasn’t heard from her in ages.

But yes, he had indeed showered. He’d gotten up far too early that morning, unable to sleep as his mind rewound the moment on the balcony, his brain playing the part of a broken record. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t get rid of those pools of intensity, the lines of dismay, the tingles up his spine that made him want to shiver like he’d gotten snow shoved down his back. He could swear his skin was about ready to melt right off the further he sunk into the memory, and so he’d gotten to his feet and left the medical trailer with purpose. It felt as if he was supposed to sneak into Barrington House, though no one would question him if he were caught. The trailers themselves had tiny bathrooms of their own with a stall and a shower-head, but he hadn’t wanted to wake Carson and, more than that, he just wanted to be _alone._

The water was cold enough to make his teeth chatter and his body seize up from a momentary shock to his system. But it was exactly what he wanted and maybe exactly what he needed, and Daryl stayed under the spray for longer than he cared to think on. He even took the time to suds up a little and run some shampoo through his knotted hair. By the time he’d stepped out into the even cooler air surrounding the low tub, he could hear the beginnings of people stirring upstairs. He figured Maggie would still be asleep, however; Glenn and Tara had returned late into the night with a small haul of makeshift weapons and more medical supplies. The two had retreated to the library-turned-bedroom to join Maggie and Enid until Rick’s arrival, meaning they would want to store up on as much sleep as possible.

They all stood around now, though, grouped tightly together. Maggie and Sasha had hugged, whispering and smiling with both sadness and joy. Daryl had heard how she’d followed Maggie and Glenn to Hilltop, allowing them to help her bury Abraham’s body with Rosita’s approval. She had stayed for quite some time but then left for Alexandria again before Daryl had been rescued. When Maggie finally let go of Sasha, she and Rosita shared an embrace, too.

Looking over Carol’s shoulder as he held her tightly, Daryl could see Rosita was trying hard not to let her gaze stray to the little cemetery at the far end of the grounds. She hadn’t seen Abraham’s grave yet and she no doubt wasn’t ready for it now.

As he sets Carol down onto her own two feet, he turns his head and spots Jesus headed their way, pausing for a moment to exchange words with Sasha and greet Rosita for what must be the first time before moving even closer still. He meets Daryl’s eye for a second, nothing in his expression changing as he shifts his view to the strange man who Daryl knows has to be King Ezekiel.

“Hello, friend,” Ezekiel greets in a calm and pleasant tone, stepping out in front of his guards.

Jesus smiles amiably, moving to meet the taller man.

“Ezekiel. It’s nice to see you again.”

“It is,” he agrees, his voice louder than it needs to be, as if addressing a much larger crowd. “I had thought you would be the one to set this in motion, it has been a long time coming, but I believe I’m not wrong in assuming you’ve been working behind the scenes. Rick has told me of your importance, and Carol has told me of his. Together, our communities complete the circle.” He gestures to Rick, holding his hand out grandly. “Rick’s community was vastly undersold to me. Even when I was told that a few key members had been residing at Hilltop as of late, I was impressed. Alexandria is definitely worth fighting for, as are the Hilltop and my Kingdom. Which leads me to believe that we have much to discuss.”

“We do,” Jesus agrees. “Rick?”

“We’re ready.”

“This way.”

Jesus turns and leads the line towards Barrington, no doubt choosing to ignore the way Gregory disappears from the window. As he passes Daryl, they make eye contact, but it’s gone as fast as it came.

“That’s Jesus,” Carol whispers to Daryl. It’s not a question because it’s too easy to draw the conclusion by just looking at the guy. But she _does_  want an answer.

“Yeah. That’s him.”

“What’s his deal?”

“What d’you mean?”

Carol eyes him from the side, holding the sides of her arms as they cross loosely over her chest.

“He saved your life, didn’t he? You’re staring at him like he might stab you in your sleep.”

_Or kiss me when I ain’t thinkin’._

“I ain’t starin’,” Daryl instead denies, although his words hold less weight when he has to dart his eyes away from the place on Jesus’s back they’d been burning holes into. “We got a lot to cover. Just tryin’ not to think ‘bout what’ll go wrong.”

“How are you?” she asks next, seemingly accepting his answer. For now, at least. “I didn’t ask what happened. I didn’t want to know then. But they said you were gone, then they said you were back, and now I’m wondering… what did they do?”

_What’d they do to you?_  Daryl remembers asking that question after Carol and Maggie hadn’t gotten away from the ones that took him. He remembers wanting to despite himself, wanting to try and understand what had gotten its hooks into Carol. But she’d looked at him like she couldn’t understand his question, and she had said: _To us? They didn’t do anything._

They may have been Saviors, but they weren’t much like the ones Daryl had encountered at Sanctuary; the ones who were desperate to feel Negan’s power, to gain his respect. The ones who were too afraid to even shit in their own beds or else the boogeyman might make them eat it. Those people _ _had__  done things to Daryl, plenty of things he wanted to keep behind himself, but the worst part was that it hadn’t been anything new. The beatings, the taunts, the degradation… So familiar in their forms despite the new and shiny wrapping.

Daryl shakes his head and rubs at his mouth. When Carol looks at him, he looks right back.

“Nothin’ that ain’t been done already,” he tells her because he knows she’ll _understand._ “Don’t matter now.”

“We can’t fall off the floor. And maybe sometimes that’s a good thing. But we have to get up __now__. We have to be ready.”

Carol grabs his fist in her hand and brings it to her lips as they take the stairs in sync. She places a kiss to his knuckles and squeezes his fingers before she let’s his arm drop back to his side.

Jesus opens the door and steps into the building, holding it open for everyone as they step inside. Just like the first day they had all shuffled in. The ghost of Abraham flickers into his mind, the awe on his face as he stared around the room. He shakes the thought and follows Carol inside, crossing in front of Jesus to linger off to the side as the rest of the crew files around. Still, the doors to Gregory’s office are firmly closed.

Maggie takes hold of the lead then, moving with Glenn and Tara at her flank, beckoning everyone towards the kitchen. Daryl lets Carol follow beside Ezekiel, hanging back behind the guards and ignoring their discreet glances towards him. Jesus shutting the door gets him moving, but his pace is awkward. Should he slow down further to let the younger man pass? Should he speed up to put some distance between them. Daryl risks a glance over his shoulder, peeking through the strands of hair that curve against his cheekbones.

Jesus is a few feet behind him, moving leisurely with his hands clasped in front and his eyes trained forward, looking at Daryl but not really __seeing__ , not like he had been the previous evening. He can’t decide if that’s a loss or a gain, or if he even wants to be thinking about it at all.

Somehow, he can’t stop.

* * *

 

The meeting held inside the kitchen goes on for a long while. Rick, Ezekiel, Jesus, and Maggie are the loudest voices, trying to smooth out the details of the plan they had already been forging. Glenn interjects occasionally, as does Daryl whenever Carol gives him a _look_  that says she knows he has something to contribute.

“Negan has outposts within your vicinity,” Ezekiel informs them, tapping the map Glenn had spread across the counter. “I don’t doubt that he’s sent more people to occupy them, given your rocky standings.”

“We can scope them out,” Jesus suggests. “It’ll be easier to decide how many people should stay stationed here and at Alexandria for defense. They might try to make their way back as we do.”

“Were retreating?”

Jesus shrugs a shoulder at Rick’s question, touching his wrist as if trying to pull at a glove that isn’t there. Daryl’s noticed this as another habit of the younger man.

“Not unless we have to. But it’s an option. They don’t know what’s coming, but neither do we. Not entirely.”

Michonne nods and leans forward, tapping her own finger around the squares they’d drawn over the faded markings.

“You’re sure this is the main base?”

“Yes,” Ezekiel replies assuredly.

Jesus backs him up.

“That’s where they were holding Daryl.”

“His guy, _Simon,_ he bounces between outposts,” Daryl tells them lowly, meeting several pairs of eyes around the room. “But Negan only ever leaves to collect. Got a bunch a girls there and everythin’. He don’t go far.”

“It was well guarded,” Jesus pipes in again, nodding to Daryl’s words. He pauses to think for a moment, one eyebrow rising as the other drops low, and he corrects his previous statement. _“Extremely_  well guarded.”

“Chain-link fences,” Daryl adds, recalling the inner workings of the factory that he was allowed to witness. He remembers the fences the most, glaring at the groaning lame-brains through the diamond holes, having to round them up as punishment for his refusal to become one of Negan’s soldiers. “Lines of walkers. Stone barricades.”

“And snipers,” Ezekiel continues. “Not all the outposts have them, but Sanctuary does. Many.”

Rick nods at all of this information, digging his hands into his belt as the gears of his mind turn. He stares at the map along with everyone else, roving over the paths they should take. But then he clenches his jaw and grips at the table.

“We can do this _now _\--”__

__“__ No,” Jesus answers.

“We don’t need to drag this out,” Rick tries to pitch.

“We’re not ready.” It’s Maggie this time, looking from Rick to Glenn. Glenn looks even more concerned than his wife does.

_“Rick,”_ Michonne says, soft and vehement. She grips the arm of his that’s clenched to the table. “Going out without a plan? We can’t do that anymore. We’ve tried. And we’re sticking with this because it’ll _work.”_

“It won’t be long.” Daryl’s nodding, showing Rick a confidence that he’s begging to muster up. “When we’re out there, we’ll get ‘im. But we can’t go out there now.”

Rick’s expression is torn between a twist of an argument waiting to happen and the slack of acceptance. He takes a deep breath and let’s it out, wrapping his fingers around Michonne’s. Her grip is the strength Rick needs to draw from.

“I know. _I know._  I just keep thinkin’ about what can happen between now and then.”

“If we keep our heads down, hopefully nothing.”

Everyone seems to nod at Jesus’s sentiment. Then everyone returns their attention to the map. Glenn pulls a marker from his jean pocket and begins etching lines between shapes, shading off sections they shouldn’t bother with and highlighting those they can use to their advantage. Many paths web out from the Sanctuary, but that won’t stop their forward march. If they can all keep it together in the days leading up to their assault on Negan, then there’s a good chance they might actually pull this off.

Rick takes a deep breath.

“Paul, Sasha, Rosita, Daryl-- round the people up. We need to start trainin’ now. And make sure everyone understands what they’re getting into. This is gonna be a war and I’m not gonna force people into it. We want them to fight, with us or for us. Make sure they’re ready. Michonne and I will head back. Ezekiel--”

“We will head out, too. My people will be waiting. Carol?”

“I’m staying,” she murmurs. “For a few days. There’s a lot to learn about Hilltop. I won’t be long.”

Ezekiel nods to her and holds up both hands to his guards. They stand at attention.

“Scout the outposts, Jesus. That will be valuable information. And I will see you again soon, my friend.”

Rick looks to Jesus for approval and when the younger man nods, so does Rick.

“We’ll meet at Alexandria at the end of the week, converge on Sanctuary from there. Together. We have time until then to get stuff done.”

As Ezekiel and his guards leave Barrington to start their journey back to the Kingdom, Sasha approaches Daryl. She’s got a rifle slung across her chest, a makeshift silencer at the end, and she pulls a handgun from the back of her belt. She holds the weapon out for Daryl to take and so he does, flipping it over in his hands for a quick inspection.

“You know how to fight?” Daryl can hear Rosita ask Jesus from a few feet behind. There’s attitude in her tone, a desire to be certain that she’s not getting stuck with mediocrity when the stakes are so high.

Daryl turns just enough to see her hands on her hips and to see Jesus offer her a small, almost harmless smile.

“Don’t worry. I can hold my own.”

He nearly snorts at Jesus’s words. _Hold his own._ He could do more than that and Daryl had seen it first hand in those woods, the way he morphed into a flurry of kicks and punches and vaults as they cut through those roamers. Rosita wouldn’t be disappointed, that was for sure. She might even be impressed.

Sasha leads the way out of the kitchen, leading Daryl, Rosita, and Jesus as the others stay where they are to review the map yet again. The medley of clonking boots fills the silence inside walls of Barrington House, but when they reach the grounds of Hilltop, they hear something far noisier. Many more people have gathered near the gates to witness Ezekiel’s departure, all of them whispering amongst themselves and turning in delayed synchronicity as the group of four approaches. Jesus moves up from and center to address his curious people.

“I’m sure you just saw King Ezekiel leave. For those of you who don’t know or remember, he’s the leader of a community called the Kingdom. We know from our trading network that he’s got a lot of people and a lot of resources, and he’s allied himself with Rick and with all of _us_  who haven chosen to fight back against the Saviors. But the first thing we need to be sure of is how ready we are. Rosita, Sasha, Daryl, and I want to help everyone learn how to defend themselves. Even those who aren’t willing to stand against Negan need to know how to fight effectively and shoot properly. If you can help round everyone else up to meet here within the hour, we can split into groups and switch between skill sets.”

The people murmur hesitant ascent at Jesus’s request and begin to scamper away to gather the rest of the colonists, readying themselves for their training. Jesus then turns to Rosita and the two begin to discuss their strategies. Sasha turns to Daryl, as well.

“You ready for this?”

“I guess,” he mumbles, scanning the area. “You could do it yourself.”

“I could… but I don’t _want_ to. This will go a lot smoother with the two of us teaching all of them.”

Daryl hums. “Yeah. They can’t all be shit shots.”

“We should head outside the walls for this. We need more space. You think behind would work?” Sasha asks as she jerks her head to the side, indicating a possible area out behind Barrington House. Daryl nods and shoves the gun into his own belt.

“You wait for for the group. Let ‘em know what’s up when they’re split. I’ll find us some targets.”

As the people begin to filter out of the house and the trails and stalls, Daryl snoops around the yard, gathering trash where he can find it. Bottles, cans, jugs, scraps of wood that he can mark on; anything that isn’t needed and that can be hit, he shoves into a tote and hauls it onto his shoulder. They’ll probably need some rope to attach the jugs to, string it up in a tree to simulate a moving target. That’ll be the most important thing, being able to hit moving bodies that are ready to attack.

When he finds enough trash-turned-targets, he signals to Sasha who stands by the gates, waiting with a rather large cluster of colonists that are ready to get some shooting practice in. She nods and props her gun up, waving to the guard, and then she leads the people outside of the walls. Daryl brings up the rear, bag in hand and rope in hand. Jesus and Rosita stand in front of their own group, taking turns addressing their own crowd. Jesus’s gaze is the last thing he sees before the grounds of Hilltop are blocked by the wall he’s blocked behind.

* * *

 

“Why’d you go back?”

It’s a question Daryl had been thinking of asking for the past hour, boiling up inside his brain every time Sasha looked over at him with furrowed brows and pursed lips, wanting to speak to him but not quite knowing if either of them would get anything out of it. He couldn’t take her looks anymore, couldn’t take the silence he once coveted. Not from her, too.

“Excuse me?” she asks without her usual attitude, not needing to put distance between them when they’d traveled so many miles together already.

“To Alexandria,” Daryl clarifies. He bites down on the side of his lip, gripping the peeling skin with his teeth, and looks out onto the people aiming their guns at the targets they’d set up along the cars behind Hilltop’s back wall. “Why not just stay?”

“I did, for a while. But by then, I didn’t need to anymore.” Sasha checks her scope for what must be the tenth time in twenty minutes. She rolls her shoulders. Pops her neck. “Maggie’s got this place covered, Glenn and Jesus have _her_ covered… With everything going on back there? They need me. And I need that.” Finally, they meet each other’s eye, Sasha’s forehead creased with worried curiosity and Daryl’s mouth twisted uncomfortably to the side. “Why? What are you thinking?”

It’s an honest question. He’s just not sure he has an honest answer and, if he does, if he wants to _give_ it.

Daryl doesn’t need a reason to haul himself back over to Alexandria. It’s not safe, sure, but when has that ever stopped him? He’d done plenty of stupid, life-threatening shit -- before the world ended and especially after -- but somehow this felt different. He _could_  go, hide himself away somewhere inside one of those big, empty houses. But that would feel too much like running away; from his problems, from his discomfort, from _Jesus._ But just the thought already makes him feel __wrong__ , and the only option he has is to stay and ignore things. Act like everything is fine until it _isn’t,_ until it’s too much to handle and has him boiling up and spilling over until he’s burned himself worse than anyone else his spewing touches.

He could confront it, but… Fuck no, he can’t do that. He __won’t__. What’s done is _done_  and over with, and that’s all.

“Just…” he says finally, shaking his head as Sasha switches her gaze from the uncertain group lined up in front of them to Daryl’s matching uncertain expression. “Thinkin’ ‘bout what Abraham said.”

Sasha’s head jerks up sharply, eyeing the sky like she might find him in the clouds, like she might meet his gaze if he’s looking down at her right now. Daryl regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, regrets that he seems to be trading one stupid for another, but he can’t take them back. Even if he could, Sasha wouldn’t let him.

She sucks in a deep breath and looks to Daryl with a forced smile.

“That man said a lot of things... What’d was it to you?”

“First time here, when everyone else was meetin’, he asked ‘bout Rick and ‘Chonne. I didn’t know nothin’. Weren’t my business. But then he-- He asked if I ever thought ‘bout settlin’ down. Didn’t know why he cared…” Looking to the woman beside him, with her expression far more open than he’d seen since knowing her, Daryl whispers: “He was thinkin’ bout you.”

Sasha’s head tilts to the other side, corners of her mouth pulling down and then lifting up at the behest of contradicting emotions. He can see her eyes grow wet, her teeth start to show through parted lips as she holds herself together from the inside. Within the moment, the emotion passes, and she’s left with a breath of calm.

“Yeah, well, I keep thinking about his shitting camel story, so… trade you?”

Daryl snorts and looks up to the sky just as she had, squinting at the clouds. There’s nothing up there for him to see; no discernible shapes jumping out for his imagination to take hold of, no birds swooping high or low, no streaks of color besides _blue blue blue._ He’d take a shade of green just to break it all up, like the flecks inside Jesus’s irises.

He tries to shake that thought away by bringing his index finger up to his mouth, biting at the loose skin there. It tastes like the metal of the gun he’s been holding. Maybe he should bite his tongue, get a taste of blood instead. Wouldn’t be much different.

_“You_  thinking about settling down?” Sasha asks after a beat.

She looks at him with a little more interest, her invisible shield teetering on staying low or rising back up to protect her head and heart. If Daryl was smart, he’d do the same. But he just… can’t.

_No way in hell,_ is what he should say. It’s what he’s always thought. But what about his future, like Jesus had asked? What happens after the war, if Daryl’s still standing? When Rick, Michonne, Carl, and Lil Asskicker refortify Alexandria and settle in like the family they deserve to be; when Glenn and Maggie have their Baby Badass and have to plants _their_ roots instead of vegetables; when Carol finds enough peace to do what she wants instead of what she has to… What will Daryl do? What can he?

“Nah… Ain’t nothin’ gonna settle, least of all me.”

“What do you want then?” Sasha questions, pulling the scope up to her eye yet again.

She stops before peers through it, leaving her focus on Daryl. They’re both conscious of the colonists standing just feet away, trying their hardest not to stare at the too hard-asses for longer than a couple of minutes at a time. None of them dare to prompt them into action.

“For this to be done with,” Daryl answers. And that, at least, is the truth. But anything beyond that? Well, he sure as hell doesn’t know. “You?”

“The same, I guess,” Sasha says quietly, staring out into the distance like she can see something that isn’t visible to anyone else.

Daryl takes a morbid sort of comfort in realizing that Sasha is just as lost as he is.

* * *

 

It’s… not easy. Helping teach a group of over thirty people, even with someone as good as Sasha, isn’t a task he’s used to. Even with the slightly more even temperament he’s garnered within the nearly two years of surviving in a world that can’t decide if it’s a complete wasteland or not, his patience has run thin by the time Sasha suggests a break and then a switch. Two hours later.

His already crumbled pack of smokes gets crushed even further as he taps one out, pressing it between his lips and lighting the tip as he, Sasha, and the colonists make it back into the yard.

Daryl’s the first one in, leading the pack, but his footsteps slow as his vision registers Jesus blocking hits from a much larger man. It looks so easy from where he stands, so effortless for Jesus to throw his arms up in quick succession, twisting and swinging out in a counter. He’s struck with the imagery of some kind of dance again, his movements a wealth of contradictions just like the man himself. It’s graceful and sloppy, it’s pulled and brutal, it’s trained and scrappy. There’s nothing to it and yet, there’s _everything._ It’s a discipline as much as it is an indulgence.

Jesus twists, propelling himself into the air. Everything seems to slow down as Daryl takes in the sight.

Jesus’s right knee bends inward and then he kicks out, landing a hit to the larger man’s gut. He staggers but doesn’t fall, and it seems as if this had been anticipated. Because as Jesus pulls his reg leg inward once more, his left leg juts out, his fit slamming into his opponent’s abdomen. And as the guy starts to teeter backwards, Jesus lands one more sting; he swings his right leg back around again, extending almost fully, and slams one last kick into the chest, knocking the recipient to the ground with a grunt.

With said recipient sprawled out on his back, Daryl can clearly see who it is. _Alex._ Daryl snorts before he can stop himself.

Jesus is looking at him now and it’s only then that Daryl notices the little details. His hair isn’t at his shoulders anymore, but rather thrown up into a messy topnotch upon his head. His face is flushed from exertion, his faded white shirt stuck to the sweat on his body, and his chest heaves in rapid rhythm. Up this close, Daryl can see it _isn’t_  as effortless as Jesus is able to make it look, that he feels aches and pains and exhaustion just like everyone else. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Jesus _is_  like everyone else. Daryl so often finds himself thinking that the man is so much more. __Too__  much more.

Flicking his gaze over towards Rosita, Daryl is suddenly feeling sheepish for having stared so long and hopes Rosita hadn’t noticed. Smoke blows out from his mouth and gets carried away with the breeze. Jesus looks away, too, and holds out a hand for Alex to clasp. There’s hesitation, but only briefly, and then Alex allows Jesus to help him back to his feet.

“If you’re done _showing off_ …” Rosita emphasizes, gathering the attention of nearly all those who stand around her.

Daryl can just make out the hint of impressed approval in her tone. She sounds nearly as winded as Jesus looks. Had they been at it this whole time? Daryl wouldn’t past either of them.

“I think it’s time for a break,” she continues, reaching around to tighten her ponytail. She knocks Jesus’s shoulder with her knuckles. “You want some water?”

“Please.”

She nods at him and then at Daryl, and then she begins to stride away towards Barrington. Daryl looks to Jesus once more and notices that he isn’t the only one. Alex is watching him, too, seemingly trying to burn holes into the side of Jesus’s face until he looks in his direction. But he has no luck; Jesus has chosen to have the entirety of his vision occupied by Daryl. And instead of holes being burnt into his skin, he feels gentle waves of warmth that could easily be mistaken for the air swirling around them. He knows it’s not.

Blowing out more smoke, he shifts his eyes over to Sasha as she steps up beside him.

“You’re good,” she tells the stupid ninja, and there’s a sort of awe in her voice as well. “And they were good, too.” She turns her head and nods to the side, towards the group that had come back with them. They seem to take that as an opportunity to join the group Jesus and Rosita has been instructed, though their murmuring is kept to a minimum.

“Any trouble?”

“It was fine. But we’re gonna need more targets,” she informs him, shifting the firearm at her side.

“I’ll find some,” Alex offers. He’s finally taken his eyes off Jesus to address Sasha properly. “Anything in particular?”

“No. Just something we can shoot, as long as you don’t need it.”

Daryl watches Alex brush himself off, slapping his hands against his thighs. The back of his shirt is dusted with dirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He leaves it be and takes off without another word. No one follows.

Daryl exhales a final gust of smoke as Jesus brushes a wild strand of hair away from his cheek. Neither of them speaks to the other.

* * *

 

And so it goes for the next few days.

It quickly and easily becomes routine. Daryl wakes up in the medical trailer, eats with Glenn, Maggie, Tara, Sasha, Rosita, and Enid in the big house, and then picks up the targets Alex leaves at Earl’s stall. They pass by Jesus an Rosita as they await their group, readying themselves for endless hours of training and exertion as Sasha and Daryl wait by the walls for their own trainees.

Daryl meets Jesus’s gaze every morning as they leave, every afternoon as they return for a break, every evening as they head back out, and every night before they head their separate ways to rest a few hours before it all eventually repeats. But they never speak a word, they never stare for too long, and Daryl isn’t certain that the creeping discomfort that is becoming something chronic is worth what had happened.

It feels as if he’s lost another ally, as if he’s lost a _friend._ He had grown accustomed to Jesus’s presence without even realizing it; having him there to always share a look with, having that companionship to seek comfort in after living through hell, hell, hell… The lack of it now, even with so many of those he cares about surrounding him at Hilltop, is unsettling.

And the longer it goes on -- _day after day after day_  -- the harder it is for him to keep it inside. His fidgeting is temporarily relieved by his waning cigarettes, but as soon as he stubs one out, the jitters return. And when he runs out, which is far sooner than he had planned, it gets even worse. He knows he shouldn’t let it get to him. It shouldn’t really matter if Jesus talks to him or not. It’s too bad it _ _does__.

Daryl watches Jesus in the dark from his spot on the steps, his crushed and empty cigarette pack in hand. He folds it over a few times, scraping at the plastic with his nub of a fingernail. He’d been biting them a lot more lately, too; enough for him to actually take notice of. He’s too nervous and stressed, maybe even a little spooked with all that’s going on and has yet to still happen. He just needs to breathe, and so he does. He sits on the steps and inhales the cold night air through his nose, allowing it to escape slowly through his mouth.

Jesus heads towards the trailers at a brisk pace, pulling his hair out from the bun he’d been using during the day. He lets it fall back down to his shoulders without a fuss, gripping the hair at the top of his head and shaking it out through his fingers. He stops in his tracks and just stands there for a moment, not doing anything but breathing and looking up at the sky. Daryl thinks he might look his way, find him staring through the darkness and then stare right back. But he doesn’t. He just starts on his walk again, going and going until he disappears inside one of the trailers at the far end.

The doors open behind him.

Daryl doesn’t turn to see who it is. He doesn’t have to because they sit themselves down right next to him, burrowing themselves deeper into the over-sized jacket they’re wearing.

“You okay?” Maggie asks, somehow barely audible in the silence.

“M’fine.”

“You’re just sittin’ here, starin’ into the dark. Seems like something’s on your mind.”

She’s right, of course. There _is_  something on his mind. There’s a lot of somethings. But where does he begin? Where could he even? She’s got a lot to worry about as is and the doctor had already said she should try to stay away from stressful situations as much as possible, which was highly unlikely to begin with but Daryl didn’t need or want to add onto the pile of shit she was already dealing with.

She was stepping up at Hilltop, slowly slotting into Gregory’s position as leader the farther and farther she got into this whole ordeal. She talked with Jesus often, went over maps with Glenn, looked into inventory the closer they got to Collection Day for the Saviors. Rick had told her she needed to start doing these things and she had taken it to heart, especially after the loss of Abraham.

“Nah,” he says. Because it’s the easiest thing to do and because he knows she’ll drop it this time, even if she doesn’t believe him.

“Okay.” There’s rustling beside him, coming from her lap. He looks over and down, only now noticing the pile of fabric she’d been holding. “Here,” she offers, holding it out for the taking. He eyes it for a long moment but ultimately decides to grab it, gripping it out in front of his face.

It’s a plaid flannel jacket, red and black and brown. He’d been wearing one like it not too long ago, with leather sleeves sewn onto the ripped armholes. It was probably still around at Alexandria somewhere, Glenn could have found it if Daryl had asked, but he hadn’t.

There are pockets and buttons like the other one, but the quilting on the inside is different and the hood with strings is, too. The color is more faded than it probably had once been, but the jacket doesn’t look dirty. It doesn’t even really look used. It’s bigger than he is, which means extra room, not as much restriction.

“It’s getting colder already,” Maggie explains. She elbows his bare bicep. “Glenn and Tara brought some stuff back with them, but he told me you didn’t want anything. So I talked to Jesus. He said _that_  should do you some good for a while. Wouldn’t give it to you himself, though…”

Of course it would be from Jesus. All the clothes he had gotten at Hilltop so far were provided by him. They probably weren’t things the younger man wore, Daryl was taller and wider in the shoulders, but the fact of the matter is that he had something Daryl could use, he handed it over. And he was giving Daryl something __again__  when all Daryl seemed to do was take and never appreciate. He wouldn’t be surprised if Jesus thought he was a real douchebag.

Cradling the jacket to his stomach, Daryl looks to Maggie. Her expression is both concerned and questioning.

“Did somethin’ happen? Did you have a fight?”

“No,” he says a little too quickly. “Wouldn’t matter if we did anyhow. S’just stupid shit.”

“I saw you two gettin’ along. And I thought that was great, that maybe you found someone who you didn’t have to be so closed off with. I know you have Carol and Rick, and you have me and Glenn, but ever since Beth…” Maggie’s voice wavers at the mention of her sister’s name. It pangs a spot inside Daryl, too. But she swallows hard, inhales deeply, and trudges on. “And then Negan, whatever his people did to you… It’s different. _You’re_  different. I know things are always hard and that they’ve been a lot harder lately, I guess I just don’t wanna see you go away. You know? You’re here, but are you really _here?_ Jesus seemed to be helpin’ with that. I think you should talk to him. Whatever happened wasn’t nothin’, but it doesn’t have to be _somethin’.”_

“It don’t matter,” is his reflexive response, but Maggie shakes her head.

“It _does_  matter,” she tells him. “It matters because you want it to. And you should. So, talk to him. Please.”

She puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing as she stands. Daryl looks up at her. She’s half illuminated by the candle light flickering in from the window behind them. Daryl captures his bottom lip between his teeth and ducks his head down to take in the sight of the plaid jacket instead. It doesn’t have to be _something;_ it doesn’t, that’s true. And maybe if he talks to Jesus they can put the whole thing behind themselves. It was just a kiss. It was just a mistake. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Goodnight,” she says softly.

“Night,” he says back.

Then she turns on the step and reenters Barrington, letting the door click shut after her. A gentle reminder of finality. Daryl takes the jacket and heads to the infirmary for the night, resolved to speak with Jesus in the morning.

* * *

 

Daryl is probably the last one in all of Hilltop to hear about this scouting mission. They’d talked about it with Rick and Ezekiel, of course, how it would be a smart move to scan for outposts near their communities, to get a better understanding of how many should be stationed at their safe zones when the rest head to Sanctuary to start a war with Negan. But no one had told him it was a sure thing and no one had told him Jesus was the one going. Alone.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t woken up as early as usual or maybe it was because Maggie had been too focused on sending Glenn and Tara off to Alexandria yet again to speak with Rick about their shortening timetable. Whatever the reason, the truth is that Daryl hadn’t known Jesus was leaving until he saw the guy, all decked out in his coat and hat and gloves -- which were all only now starting to be justifiable given the shifting season -- waving for the guards to open the gates.

“Hey!” he calls out, jogging only slightly to catch up with Jesus as he turns towards the call. There’s something strange that passes over his face when he spots Daryl, but he smooths it away as if it had never even appeared.

“Hi. Do you need anything?”

“You’re lookin’ for outposts? I’ll come with.”

Daryl starts to take even more steps forward, but Paul’s hand freezes him.

“Thank you, but I can do this on my own.”

“Never said you couldn’t. But I’m still comin’.”

“You don’t need to. It won’t take me long to--”

_“Paul,”_ Daryl blurts, for lack of anything else to say.

It’s the first word that came to mind despite never having addressed the man by his real name before. It sounds foreign to Daryl’s ears, but if it could taste right on his tongue, he’s sure it does.

_Call me Paul_ , he'd said.

And _Paul_  looks at him then, eyes big and brows high, the crinkles of his forehead relaying the shock of the sudden moment. _It’s just a name,_  Daryl thinks. But he knows that’s not entirely true. It’s _his_  name. It’s _Paul_. Why does that feel so personal? Daryl’s only ever heard Earl Sutton call the little ninja prick his given name, never referring to him as Jesus. Daryl thinks it suits him to do the same.

“I thought I didn’t look like a Paul,” he replies quietly, as if he’s not sure whether he wants Daryl to hear or not; whether he wants him to __respond__ or not.

Daryl licks his overly dry lips, worrying them, and shrugs.

“Gotta call you somethin’. Still ain’t gonna be Jesus. And you still ain’t goin’ alone.”

Paul fidgets with his gloves and scratches at the back of his head, his eyes cast down from Daryl’s. There’s a quirk to his mouth that Daryl can’t miss this time.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Sure.”

He turns around and nods to the guards. Daryl follows, pulling at the hood of the jacket he’d gotten the night before. He stuck it on under his vest and it was already blocking him from the crisp chill he could feel cooling his nose and ears, but he couldn’t deny to himself that he felt a little awkward in it. Jesus -- Paul -- hadn’t said anything about it, which was perfectly fine and normal. Why should he mention a random jacket he’d given to Maggie to give to Daryl? It was just to combat the cold, just a thing that everyone else _including_  Paul wore.

The edge of the jacket gets tugged on next by Daryl’s restless fingers as he walks beside Paul all the way around the right side of Hilltop’s walls. They reach a mass of brush in no time, their silent trek both amiable and awkward. Daryl pauses by the edge, thumb at his mouth, and watches Paul push past the branches to get to the beat-up green Corolla hidden within. He pulls a set of keys from his pocket and slides one into the door, jiggling the handle until it creaks open. The noise kicks Daryl back into motion. Moving around to the passenger side, Daryl’s own door creak’s open too, and he slides himself into the seat just as Paul settles into his own.

As the ignition putters to life and Jesus starts the slow roll of the car over the bumpy grass and dirt, Daryl takes a peek around the small space. It’s old and dusty, with garbage on the floorboards and an assortment of bags in the back seat. There’s a pile of cracked, plastic cd holders and a white box that looks like a first-aide kid stuffed under the row of seats in the back. He’s sure he spots a few pocket knives, too.

“This yours?” he asks when Paul continues on his uneven path to avoid the mud on the way to the road.

“What if it is?”

“It’s shitty.”

That gets a real smile out of Paul now, cheeks plumping with the stretch of his lips. He tries to reel it in, but it’s not so easy this time.

“If you’re asking if this was mine from _before,_ then no. I don’t have anything from then anymore. But… I like to think of this as mine _now._ The fact that it’s shitty is a perk.” He looks to Daryl for a brief moment, still amused. “No one seems to wanna steal it.”

Daryl huffs and turns his head before Paul can see his own smile taking hold. His elbow rests on the door, knuckles against the cracked window, and he watches the stretch of land go by. They won’t be on the road for long. The idea is that Sanctuary has set up hidden outposts around the various areas to keep an eye on those they have under their thumb. But it’s something Ezekiel had only brought up recently, something that Paul hadn’t seemed to think of before, so it must be a new practice. Probably spurred on by Daryl’s escape. Negan’s looking for a reason to strike again, any reason to punish someone else. They can’t give him that chance.

Paul steers the car to the side of the road a few miles out, cutting the engine. They switch to on-foot tactics then, carefully traversing into the woods with their eyes and ears on high alert.

They amble through twigs and fallen leaves, the wind drawing even more down from their perches above, swirling around them. Daryl tugs at the hood again, forcing it to one side of his shoulder. Paul’s eyes are drawn to the movement and he flicks his gaze down to study the burgundy plaid beneath the familiar vest.

“I’m glad it fits,” he says at last. It’s no more than a whisper; he doesn’t want anyone or anything to hear the sound. “It looks good on you.”

Daryl clears his throat. The scruff on his chin is rough against his hand.

“’Kay,” is all he can think to mumble.

And it’s not quite right because it sounds as if he had been seeking some sort of approval, but it’s not quite wrong either because he _had_  been wondering, but now his face feels hot, like he’d been dowsed in warm water, and he just--

There’s a rustle up ahead and to the right. Paul’s hand comes out to touch Daryl’s chest, warning him to stop. His body tenses, more fight than flight, and he hunches down into his stealthy stance. Paul hunches, too, and they both peer out into the distance.

There’s another rustle. A crunch. A snap.  

Daryl shoves at Paul’s shoulder and gestures towards the trees. They each take up position behind one, their bodies a hair’s breadth away from one another. Daryl puts a finger to his lips, quieting an already silent Paul. He nods in approval and understanding, and he doesn’t try to follow Daryl when he darts behind another tree, and then another and another. He hears rustling again and then vacant growls, but there are footsteps after them. Human. His backs plants itself against the tree and, with his knife unsheathed and raised, he waits.

The growl comes to a choking halt. Leaves crunch beneath the fallen corpse. A deep laugh and then a second.

They’re Saviors. They have to be. And if they aren’t then they’re people who are just as bad. Daryl can’t trust anyone anymore and these people have to die. He has to kill them.

The closer they get, the easier it is to hear them as they begin to speak.

“Negan’s a lucky bastard, having all those bitches… You think he’d let me borrow one? Had my eye on that Sherry since she got there with Dwight.”

Daryl’s fingers clench painfully against the handle of his knife. He grits his teeth as the other man laughs.

“Do you _want_  Negan to cut your balls off? He might even feed them to you. No one touches the women unless they ask for it, and Negan’s women _never_ ask for it. Not unless they’re asking for him.”

Paul’s hand on Daryl’s arm stops him from the lunge he was unconscious of preparing for. As his own grip tightens further around his knife, so does Paul’s around his bicep, anchoring him to the logical move. Telling him to _stop._

“He don’t deserve them,” the first man says again. His voice is getting softer the more they move on, unaware of the two lurking behind the trees.

“I should tell him you said that.”

“Oh yeah? Then you’d be the one getting __your__  balls cut off. He don’t like snitches…”

They speak more to one another, but their voices begin to trail. Daryl doesn’t care to listen to whatever other bull they shit amongst themselves. He allows himself a breath and then rolls his head against the bark to put Paul’s face in his sights.

Paul points upward, towards the tree branches, and then grips Daryl’s shoulders roughly. He startles at the sudden contact, breath catching somewhere between his chest and his throat, and it takes him a long moment of just staring at Paul’s tensed features for him to push the picture of the moment of the balcony to the back of his mind and get the real hint.

Bending, Daryl cups his hands and offers it as a step for Paul’s foot. Both hands press to his shoulders and Paul lifts himself up, allowing Daryl to hoist him swiftly. He’s as heavy as Daryl, even without having to support half the dead weight. But then Paul grabs at the branches in a smooth movement, wiggling until he’s pulled himself up fully and is able to lean across to the other side, over another heavy limb. Paul doesn’t go much higher, can’t without risking it, but this small advantage gives him a clearer shot of what lies ahead, if anything does.

He stays up there for what feels like a very long time, using a small pair of binoculars he’d pulled from his coat, leaving Daryl to scan the rest of the surrounding grounds.

There’s nothing else in sight and soon Paul slowly starts to drop himself down. Daryl grabs his legs, reaching farther up for his hips, and helps him land soft and quiet back onto his feet. He pulls back when Paul straightens and stumbles a little when the proximity registers. It’s Paul who puts a finger to his quirked lips now, mimicking Daryl’s earlier request. And then he tips forward, getting close enough to whisper into Daryl’s ear, breath tickling the sensitive cartilage there.

“Three, straight ahead. Five counting the two that just passed. Camped right in the middle of nowhere.”

“Probably set up traps,” Daryl whispers back, though his is far more gruff. Almost choking.

“Maybe. But they’re here to see what’s going on. The two on the move are probably trying to get as close to Hilltop as they can. I doubt anyone saw us leave.”

“Think there’re others? Somethin’ bigger?”

“Let’s find out,” he says, eyes piercing into Daryl’s. _“Be careful.”_

They head in the opposite direction of the camp Paul seen, slowing their steps to a near crawl, exercising full caution. Deeper and deeper through the trees they go, striking stray walkers down with speed and efficiency. They don’t spot anymore Saviors or anymore random camps, so they begin to circle back around the long way, trekking back to the car on the side of the road.

They drive a few miles, stop, wander into different sections of the forest that lines either side of them. Paul climbs handfuls of trees, using Daryl as a boost, and scours the area with his binoculars. But all he sees are small groups of the dead meandering into branches and tripping over roots. They do this again and again and again, rinse and repeat, for miles and miles.

“What was that, back there?” Daryl asks after a long stretch as they slide into the car once more.

“What?”

“With Alex.”

A line appears between Paul’s brows, but his mouth stays even. He keeps his eyes on the road, consciously loosening his clutch on the steering wheel.

“Unlike most of our people, Alex _does_  know how to fight. He volunteered to help me demonstrate what I was trying to describe. I… got a little carried away.”

“You mad at him? Thought you talked it out.”

“Not… really.” Paul sighs. “We apologized, again, and decided it was best if I talk to Wes. _Again._ But Alex still doesn’t know what he wants.” There’s a breath of a laugh that dies without humor. “I told him it was a mistake when it happened and he agreed, which is when he started going off to do whatever it is he does out here. He chose that instead of choosing to work things out with the person who __actually__  loves him. And now he thinks he can choose me. But I’m not his and I don’t _want_  to be his, and so maybe I was a little too aggressive at a time that shouldn’t have been about that. It just seems like it’s always about __that__.”

“So tell ‘im to get over it,” Daryl offers, chewing on a thumb nail that’s already far too short.

Paul barks an odd laugh. His fingers tap against the wheel, his discomfort palpable.

“I think I did,” he says. But Daryl shakes his head.

“If you don’t know then how’s he s’posed to? Tell ‘im straight up. Fuck off.”

_“Daryl,”_ Paul practically coos, the sound fondly imploring. “If it was that simple--”

“How come it ain’t?”

Paul is quiet again for a very long moment, easing his foot off the pedal as he turns car onto a dirt path opposite the unblocked road they need to be on to reach Alexandria.

Daryl looks to Paul in the drought of silence, but the younger man gives no indication of doing something out of the ordinary. And instead of asking, Daryl simply waits.

His patience is rewarded.

“When you… when you want someone and they don’t want you back, it’s _not_  simple, Daryl. It’s really, really hard. And all you want to do is try even when you know you should give up. I mean, have you ever felt that way for someone?”

The car rolls over the gravel of an empty gas station that’s not unlike the one they’d first met in front of. He bypasses the pumps and parks beside the cabinet against the wall that says ICE, cutting the ignition and meeting Daryl’s stare.

“Have you ever had that experience?” he asks again.

Daryl looks away. No, he hasn’t; that’s what he should say. He should tell Paul that he’s never wanted anyone before, not in the way he’s saying. That he’s never looked at someone and thought _I want to be with them._  He has people he calls family and who calls him family in return. He has friends who he would do anything for. He has bonds he never used to think he would or could ever deserve. But he’s never had what Paul is describing. He’s never been infatuated or lustful or _in love _.__  The concept of rejection in such a dangerous capacity is enough to fill him with anxiety.

Alex wanted Paul, but Paul didn’t want Alex. Not anymore. Daryl could tell that that wasn’t all there was to it. With the way Paul was looking at him now; so nakedly vulnerable, so patiently wondrous, willing Daryl to just _understand _…__ That maybe it was beyond that one side, that maybe Daryl had been the one to reject Paul, too. Because he had. Up on that balcony, when he’d lashed out at Paul for having the courage to share what must have been his _feelings,_ he’d done what Paul did to Alex. And it didn’t feel good, it didn’t feel like he _deserved_ it. Because he didn’t. He didn’t at all.

It made Daryl wonder for the first time that whole week: Did Paul want to _be_  with Daryl? He couldn’t understand. Glenn and Maggie loving each other made sense. Rick and Michonne taking that leap into something more made sense. But Paul and Daryl? No. That _didn’t_ make sense. How could it? No one wanted to _be_  with Daryl. No matter how much Carol joked, he knew this to be true. And Daryl didn’t want to be with anyone anyway. But…

But-- but why?

Maybe the question he should be asking himself is… _why not?_

“I saw this place a while back.” Paul breaks the silence, shifting his eyes away with the subject change. “It was pretty surrounded then, so I left it alone. I thought I’d come back later, but I just never got around to it. From the looks of it now…” he trails, eyes sweeping over the utterly abandoned parking lot, “I guess now’s as good a time as any.”

“Could be looted,” Daryl forces himself to say.

Hell, it probably was. If the place was surrounded and wasn’t now then a group probably stopped by, took them out and then grabbed whatever they needed. But Daryl couldn’t see any bodies lying around… so maybe the hoard got led away? Or they wandered off when whatever or whoever was inside was of no interested to them any longer.

“True. But there’s always something left, somewhere. Things that might not seem useful at first glance can turn out to be the most important.”

_Like Paul himself,_ Daryl thinks. And isn’t that a fucking joke? That some random idiot who gets a truck full of supplies submerged beneath water can turn out to be useful _and_  important? And he was both of those things in spades. For more than just Hilltop.

“C’mon then.”

Their doors slam at the same time, meeting up in front of the car to walk side-by-side towards the glass doors. He could see a chain holding it shut from the inside, but yanked the handle anyway, testing it. They walked the next stretch of concrete and gravel to inspect the second door on the far side of the same wall, but there was a chain there, too.

Rounding the corner to head to the back of the building, their boots crunch over rock. Some birds chirp from nearby and fly away when the two approach, rounding the next corner. A lone, dusty car comes into view. The windows have been broken, whatever contents that had been inside no doubt already taken. So they skip past it and approach the back door. No chain. But when Daryl tries the handle, it’s still locked.

Paul pounds his gloved fist against the glass, pausing for a full two minutes before pounding again. He does this several times, cutting down to one minute and then thirty seconds. There’s no sound from within, no view of anything to look out for, and so he takes that as his go ahead.

Paul steps up and reaches towards Daryl, jerking Daryl’s gun from its holster. Daryl doesn’t even notice it right away, has a delayed frown settling in place when his gun is weighted in Paul’s palm.

He watches Paul crouch all the way down, adjusting the gun until grip is jutted out where the barrel is supposed to be. Pulling back his arm, Paul swings into the bottom corner of the door, controlling the strength behind the hit, and cracks the glass. He does it a second time and then a third, softening the blows consecutively, successfully spider-webbing the cracks. The glass gets pushed and smacked away to create a hole that Paul can then thread his arm through, pressing his face against the rest of the door as his fingertips graze the lock. It’s a satisfying little sound and Daryl can’t help being a mildly impressed at the display when Paul hands back his gun.

A bell jingles above the door, alerting the vacant space of their arrival. A few of the shelves are unfilled and there are various items broken or scattered across the floor, but the inside appears to be untouched beyond that. Stacks of chips and candy and crackers, boxes of soda and beer, cartons of cigarettes behind the counter. The place was an untapped goldmine. How hadn’t anyone cleared it yet? Law of averages. That’s what Rick had gone on about. Maybe it wasn’t so bullshit after all.

Paul turns around and walks back out after taking stock of the store. Daryl moves to one of the shelves, grabbing at a candy bar and tearing it open with his teeth, but he keeps an eye on the younger man outside, watching him open the back door. He pulls several of the bags from the backseat, the ones Daryl had noticed earlier. And when he reenters the little building, boots scraping broken glass, he offers a couple to Daryl.

He takes them wordlessly and then turns back to the shelf, chomping on the chocolate while loading up on bags and boxes, dumping whatever he can into the dark depths. There are magazines and outdated newspapers on a stand near the counter, in front of where Paul is standing. He strides over and grabs those too, not caring when they crinkle as he jams those in, too.

Paul plucks the cigarette packs, one by one, from the shelf. He places them into the space between he and Daryl and then reaches down to a lower shelf to obtain the few cartons that are present. He gives those to Daryl as well, looking neither pleased nor displeased at helping to support his habit. Daryl slides them all into the bag with a nod of appreciation.

Drawers begin clattering open and closed by Paul’s hand while Daryl strides to the shelves again, snatching anything he finds useful; aspirin, lozenges, chapstick, gum, mini bottles of juice and water.

“Do you see anything that could pick a lock?” Paul asks, slamming the last drawer shut. “Like a paper clip or a hairpin?”

Daryl’s eyes sweep around, but nothing jumps out.

“Nah. Why?”

Paul gestures to the back door that reads EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Zipping up one bag, hauling it over his shoulder, and then dropping the half-full one to the floor, Daryl meets Paul around the backside of the counter. The handle is small, he can see. It probably doesn’t have a great lock. So reeling back, Daryl kicks his leg out and slams the heel of his boot forcefully into the side of the door with the latch, hitting just below the knob. The bang is accompanied by a snap. He feels the door give. He kicks again, grunting, planting his weight firmly into it. He does it one more time when the frame begins to splinter, tightening his jaw and ignoring the tingles that start to spring up from his shin to his thigh.

It swings open with a clatter to the wall.

Paul’s eyebrow is raised high, his mouth curved with interest. Daryl’s body is shading him from the outside light, but the amused gleam in his eyes is back and bright. Daryl would never admit it, but he might have missed that annoying sight. Just a little.

He follows after Paul, entering the small room just behind him. They stop in their tracks only a few feet in.

The stench is something Daryl had gotten used to, but having it hit so suddenly and so sharply still makes pieces of his insides twist.

There’s a woman on the ground. The right side of her ashen face is covered in blood from the hole she’d blown into her own head. The gun is still clutched in one hand and in the other rests a crinkled photo.

The lines of Paul’s face slacken, slowly morphing into solemnity the longer he looks down at the woman and her photo. Waves of sorrow radiate from him, flowing through the room, dissolving inside of Daryl’s chest as if to show him how to _feel._ It doesn’t matter what the story behind this woman is -- if she lost her family, if she was too scared to face the world, if her regrets led to her actions -- because any way it ends, it’s _ended,_ and Daryl has never seen Paul react this way before.

He watches the younger man creep forward, bending at the waist to gently slide the picture from the death-grip. And when he looks at it, whatever he sees, he sees it better than anyone. He sees it like he sees the world, like he sees Daryl.

Daryl doesn’t know what to say. Nothing would be good enough for whatever it is Paul is feeling.

Daryl exits the room to give Paul space, deciding to resume the task of collecting whatever goods he can. When he reaches down to grab a case of water, he sees something that strikes his own chest: liters of orange soda, sitting in the corner, never put into their spots inside the refrigerators.

It’s not a shock to see. There are cans and bottles of soda in varying flavors all around the store, but it’s the memory of Denise and her desire to gift Tara with something nice that has him drawn closer, lifting one of the bottles with extra care. He hadn’t been able to get it back to the two girls, as Paul throwing him up against the truck had crushed his last two cans. He’d thrown one and then sipped the other that would have otherwise leaked out.

He has to smile a little as he thinks of Denise nervously trying to ask him to help her get this one thing, even without assurance of Tara wanting or liking it. She was a good person and he misses her just like he misses so many of the others they’ve lost. And he wonders if she had ever told Tara about the attempt. Probably not. But maybe Daryl could. Maybe Daryl could let Tara know how much Denise had thought about her and how often, and he could bring this back to her __now.__  Better late than never.

“Is that what she wanted?”

Daryl’s snapped out of his thoughts by Paul’s voice, but he’s not as startled as he once would have been.

“You said you were sorry for something not working, that it was my fault. I also remember you throwing a smashed can at me. Orange Crush. That’s the thing Denise wanted?”

Daryl turns his narrowed gaze onto Paul.

“You were fakin’.”

Plopping a large, red toolbox onto the counter next to his bag, Paul shrugs.

“Not the whole time,” he assures.

Daryl doesn’t quite believe him. But still. He sighs, shakes his head. His thumb smooths over the label.

“She wanted me to get some for Tara, if I could. Surprise her with it.”

The bottle hisses when Daryl unseals the cap. He puts it to his lips and tilts it, chugging until nearly half of it as gone. The warmth of the fizzy liquid doesn’t even bother him.

He pulls back for an inhale of breath and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. And with one last look at the label, he extends his arm out in an offering to Paul.

He joins Daryl near the fridges. His gloved fingers stretch out beneath the plastic and then curl back in, cradling the bottle as if it were sacred.

“I’m sorry I screwed it up.”

When Paul looks up, what he doesn’t say with words is present in his face, glowing in his irises.

It’s a weight in Daryl chest, an anchor strapped in and sinking to the pit of his stomach. And although it feels as if the bones of his ribs are collapsing, his heart stays strong and steady in its rightful place.

_When you want someone and they don’t want you back, it’s not simple, Daryl._

“Didn’t screw it up. Youdidn’t.”

The words echo through their bodies, settling into the creases of uncertainty. Wiping it out. Cleansing their path forward.

Paul’s torso lurches with a silent huff, gaze dropping down and to the side. His mouth twists -- left, right, left, right -- before it settles into an even spread, a smile that’s soft and mischievous, a smile that turns his skin dusty rose. He swallows. He licks his lips. He nods. Daryl wishes he could know the thoughts orbiting inside Paul’s mind, but seeing the jumble of emotions written across his face is good enough for now.

Paul lifts the the bottle of soda to his lips, too, and takes a long sip. He reaches forward, leather touching skin, and slowly steals the green cap from Daryl’s fist, fingers crooking against Daryl’s. Holding on for several ticking seconds.

Daryl’s hair shades him from view when he drops his head down and turns to grab at the rest of the bottles on the floor.

Their overstuffed bags are returned to the back seat of the car and Paul and Daryl return to the front. Paul starts it up and reverses onto the road, starting back the way they came. It won’t take long to reach Alexandria, maybe twenty more minutes, and then they’ll scout the woods around that safe-zone too. But for now, they settle in.

On a whim, Daryl hits the play button on the dashboard, watching the little screen light up with the words TRACK 6. There’s a crackle just before the music starts up. Guitar and bass and drums fill the car through the speakers, a shouting, stuttering voice filtering in only seconds later.

_“People try to put us d-down. Talkin’ ‘bout my generation. Just because we get around. Talkin’ ‘bout my generation. Things, they do look awful c-c-cold. Talkin’ ‘bout my generation. I hope I die before I get old…”_

Daryl twists the knob for the volume, turning the song high enough for the bass to rattle within his bones. Paul side-eyes him but says nothing as Daryl leans farther back in his seat, propping his arm onto the door frame so his elbow hangs out the window. He’s smiling, teeth and all, when Daryl looks over.

If this is Paul’s taste in music, then he’s miles above Rick. That’s for damn sure. And he’ll allow himself to enjoy this ride.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone. I hope this one wrecks 2016 with how good it is. And may it be blessed with more desus scenes.
> 
> Daryl calling Paul by the actual name of "Paul" is what I'm here for. Forever.
> 
> (the title of this fic actually comes from the song in the beginning notes of this chapter -- for prayer by wye oak -- and was like one of the only things i was listening to before i started this story. another musical side note: the who was playing in paul's car at the end.) 
> 
> There are probably mistakes, as always. I never catch them all. And thank you for the feedback so far. It's always so appreciated. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. :)


	5. Creep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (some comic dialogue present in this chapter! comic scenarios also more prominent.)
> 
> I don't care if it hurts, I wanna have control  
> I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul  
> I want you to notice when I'm not around  
> You're so fuckin' special, I wish I was special  
> But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo  
> What the hell am I doing here?  
> I don't belong here
> 
> (creep | radiohead)

_“Stop!”_

Paul slams the breaks, the sudden halt forcing them forward and then back. He doesn’t glance at Daryl because he’s too busy looking at what had caused the outburst in the first place.

Far down the road, where Alexandria’s gates lie, rows and rows of trucks are parked. And he knows in an instant that not only have the Saviors arrived early, but that Negan has joined him.

“Back up,” he hisses to Paul. “Back up now!”

Paul puts the car into reverse and does as he’s told, rolling the car back several feet and then swerving the wheel to the side, straddling the road and the dirt of the forest just beyond. He has no choice but to stop the car completely when Daryl throws himself out, crouching down to hurry around towards the trunk. Paul follows him in a rush, falling down beside him, his panic not as physically as evident as Daryl’s but still present.

“This doesn’t mean anything’s wrong,” he tries to tell Daryl, voice hurried and tense. “Maybe--”

There are voices, guards up ahead, watching the road. Are they coming this way? Daryl can’t tell over the blood rushing through his ears.

“--a car--” He swears he hears. They’ll be on them in an instant. He can’t--

A shot rings out, an echo of the _BANG_  making Daryl jump. The panic that had been building rises with a roar and he finds himself moving without thought, shaking off Paul’s steely grip and blocking out the desperate wheeze of his name. He stumbles out from behind the car and runs, hoping more than all hopes that no one else has died and that Paul won’t be caught alongside him.

“Hey--” One of the men tries to say, but Daryl flings himself at the Savior, stabbing him in the shoulder. He could have killed him, more than half of him wanted to, but that would cause even more shit than what he’s stirring already.

The man’s cry of pain mixes with Daryl’s snarl in a horrendous melody, petering out with his own grunt and whimper when he’s slammed to the ground face first, all the air being knocked out of his body.

_Fuck you,_ he tries to say, but all that comes from his throat is a whistling croak.

“Don’t! Don’t kill him!”

Through blurry eyes, Daryl spots Dwight, stolen crossbow pointing at Daryl’s head. Daryl locks eyes with the motherfucker he wants to strangle, with the shithead who has apparently decided to help them behind the scenes. The hatred he directs his way should be murderous.

“That’s Daryl,” Dwight tells the other Savior. “He’s Negan’s property. Don’t fucking kill him!”

The Savior sitting on top of Daryl seems to debate whether or not to listen to Dwight, but ultimately decides that he doesn’t want to feel Negan’s wrath today. His heavy weight slides off Daryl and propels him upward, holding him still so the man that he’d stabbed can kick him in the stomach. He breathes through his nose, through the pain, and tries not to make another sound. More shots ring out, freezing the blood in his veins.

He shuts his eyes and let’s himself be shoved to the gates while Dwight runs ahead, screaming out for Negan. A flurry of even more shots are fired in rapid succession, and then… nothing.

The gate is shoved open just in time for Daryl to see Negan throwing Rick down, forcing him to kneel at the forefront of another line-up. Michonne, Sasha, Glenn, Eugene, Tara, Aaron, Eric, Carl… all on the ground, and more being forced with them. Rick’s glassy eyes look on in horror when he spots Daryl being dragged closer.

Negan turns, red-faced with fury, but that’s all gone the moment he spots Daryl, his expression flicking on and off like a light switch. He grins like that creepy ass Cheshire Cat and leans back with a laugh as he swings Lucille at his side.

“Well, _god-damned._ The one that got away! But not for long, huh?” The joy of the smile fades minutely, replaced with a sinister curl. “My, my, Daryl... we’ve been lookin’ for you everywhere. But we couldn’t find you at Hilltop, we couldn’t find you here. Not even that freak Ezekiel knew where your sorry ass was. Don’t even think he knew your fucking name. But __I__  do, Daryl. And I won’t ever forget, just like I won’t ever forget how you _fucking ran away!_  Which one of these worthless sacks of limp dicks helped you out? It couldn’t have been just you on your own. I mean, no offense, you got guts and I liked that, I __did__ , but you’re not smart enough to outsmart _me._ So listen, maybe you tell me who sprung you lose and in return I won’t melt your face off. I’ll just bash the fucker’s head in and call it even. It wasn’t Rick, was it? Fucking Christ, _please_  say it was.” He chuckles and shakes his bat in Rick’s face, making him turn his face away.

Michonne won’t tear her eyes away from him, won’t even blink in fear of missing what could be Rick’s last second alive. Daryl feels like his body has become incapable of holding oxygen.

“Was it Rick?!” Negan screams, wheeling around to showcase reddening face once more. Daryl flinches, unable to fight it it.

“No,” he spits out. He’s not sure if he’s bleeding, but the sickening tang is all he can taste inside his mouth. __“_ No.”_

Negan hums and steps to the side, touching the edge of Lucille to the top of Glenn’s head. Glenn refuses to look at him or anyone, choosing to stare blankly at a spot near the gate instead. Daryl tries to jerk from the hold on him, but the Savior keeps him roughly in place.

“What about this ugly little bastard?” Negan drags the bat from Glenn’s head to the side of his scarred face at an agonizing pace, little pieces of wire pricking at his skin. “He’s been lookin’ at me funny all day…”

“No,” Daryl chokes out again.

“If you don’t tell me who, I’m gonna lose my damn patience. Speak up now!”

Daryl’s resolute silence angers Negan further, but he doesn’t care. That deep, disturbing frown doesn’t scare him. He’s seen it before, on faces far more frightening, far more familiar.

“Get him in line,” he tells his men. “Right at the end there. Turns out he liked seeing what the inside of Red’s head looked like so much, he’s ready for a repeat! And then we’ll get started on your punishment, Daryl. Right here and now, no time like the present! Someone find me a fucking iron. We’re gonna need it in a minute.”

Pain jolts through his knees when he hits the ground beside Tara. She doesn’t move an inch, too frozen by shock and fear to comprehend anything beyond the threat. She hadn’t witnessed this the last time, but she was about to now, or maybe she’d be the one that--

He swallows the bile the thought brings on and let’s his gaze follow Negan’s every move, his open defiance going ignored for the time being.

“You could have been one of us, Daryl…” Negan sighs, leaning back with a frown. “But you _wanna be one of them.”_  Every word is enunciated, pounded out like the bat he pounds into the dirt. He gives Daryl a long stare, grinning that same wicked grin, but Negan is the first to look away. He sets his sights on Rick.

“I guess I should have figured you’d turn back into a fucking dumb-ass eventually, Rick. You let your psychotic little offspring put a dent in my lovely lady. I think I should make you cut his arm off for real this time, no more bullshit. Or maybe have you scoop out his other eye. Get some revenge for Lucille, here. But you also opened fire on me, Rick, and that was so far beyond stupid that __you__  can’t even comprehend it. You don’t care about these fine people, do you? I mean, I bash a guy’s head in right in front of your fucking face, but you _still don’t get it._ I thought you did, but you don’t, and that’s not cool. I DON’T LIKE BEING MADE A FOOL OF!” he screams into Rick’s face, spittle flicking forward. He takes a brief moment to compose himself, bouncing up to his full height once more, and he breathes a long-suffering sigh. “So we’ll do this song and dance again -- and you know _this_  song, Rick, feel free to sing along. Then, when that’s over, I’m gonna burn Daryl’s face. Peel the skin right off. We’ll have a matching trio. Daryl, Dwight, and, uh… Glenn, right? Daryl, Dwight, and Glenn. The Three _fucking_  Stooges! __And then__  it’ll be Carl’s turn, you bet your ass. Sorry, kid, but you disrespected my woman and I just __cannot__  have let that slide. I’m sure __you__  understand. I know you do.”

“Please!” a strangled sob from the far right rings out. _“Please._ Not me. It can’t be me. I… I have a family. I have a family! Just let me go.”

It’s Bruce saying this, Daryl can see. He’s been shot, is bleeding out like Daryl had been that night in the clearing. He’s a blubbering mess, covered in snot and blood and dirt. Daryl can’t look at him and returns his gaze to Negan, who is staring at the man as if dumbfounded by him.

“What? _The fuck?_ It can’t be you, huh? So, you mean to say it needs to be _someone else?_  What a fucking asshole!” Negan turns to the Saviors lining the back wall, rolling his eyes as Bruce cries harder. He laughs, low and drawn out, and swivels back around to stare Bruce down. “These people are your friends, right? Don’t _they_  have families? Don’t they have loved ones? Or are their families less important than yours? This is seriously fucking me up. Wow! Wow… Okay, new fucking plan! You ready?” He grins at the row of people, predatory eyes sweeping over each and every one of their damp faces. “If _any_  of you can say right now “kill this fucking asshole,” then he’s the one who dies. Not you.”

“Fuck you,” Tara spits, voice wavering when Negan levels her with his beady eyes. “He’s scared. We all are.”

“Fine. I’ve wasted enough time. You ready, Rick? Eeeny, meeny, miney, moe…”

Daryl tries to calm his breathing, to ready himself for what he’s about to witness once again. If he closes his eyes he’ll see Abraham and if he leaves them open then he’ll see something just as horrible… there’s nothing for him to do. There’s nothing for him to say. He thinks, for a split second, that he might try praying to whichever Jesus will hear him first. But Paul’s face flashes when he blinks -- those watchful eyes, that gentle smile, how much he fucking _cares_  -- and he knows he doesn’t want him here for this. He’d tried to get the Saviors off both of them back there, thinking maybe Paul could cause some sort of distraction, but he wouldn’t blame the guy for getting as far away as possible. For saving his own ass because the people inside weren’t worth the trouble, because _Daryl_ wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe, if he ever sees him again…

“Catch a tiger by the--”

_“Ah!”_

Daryl spots it before Negan can even turn around, the body of one of his Saviors being knocked to the dirt as a lithe figure drops from the high fence.

“The fuck!” Negan spits.

_It’s Paul._ Daryl sees the coat fluttering as he rolls, sees the knit hat and then the hair billowing beneath it. And he sees Paul grab the Savior he toppled onto, yanking him in front to shield him from the oncoming storm of bullets.

“Hold your fucking fire, you idiots--!” Negan tries to command. It’s the wrong call.

Paul throws the bullet-riddled body to the side and lunges, face full of ruthless determination as he charges at full speed.

“Go!” he shouts, eyes darting from one body to another, landing on Daryl in a flash. _“Now!”_

Everyone begins to scatter as the guns resume blazing, but Paul is too fast. He spins into a kick, smashing a Savior in the face with the heel of his boot, then twisting in one fluid motion to punch the one behind him straight in the gut. He follows it up with a hook to the face, switching arms to be able to grab the gun still clutched in the Savior’s hand.

When Daryl’s on his feet, his first swing is at Dwight’s face, smashing his knuckles right into the bastard’s mouth.

“That’s my crossbow!” he growls above the noise, gripping onto the weapon and pulling as hard as he can. Dwight tugs in return, but loses his footing when Daryl slams his foot into groin. When Dwight falls backwards, clutching at his balls and writhing in pain, Daryl flees. He won’t give him a chance to retaliate.

He hauls Tara towards cover, blocking her with his own body as he tries desperately to keep an eye on Paul. He slashes at a few of the Saviors on his way to the nearest house, shooting one of the arrows into someone’s chest. And he turns his head just in time to see Paul aiming his opponent’s arm to fire the automatic still within the dead guy’s fist. He uses his weight to swing the man around, utilizing him as defense and offense at the same time, and mows down a group of Saviors that are firing and rushing his way.

But then it’s Negan standing there, swinging his bat at Paul’s head, and Daryl knows he can’t get there in time. Even as he tries to push forward, slashing a random Savior’s throat without so much as a blink, he _knows_  Paul’s head is about to be smashed in and--

Except it’s _not._ He ducks, just in time, the wood and wire swiping through the air where he had been standing without hitting its target.

“Why the fuck hasn’t someone shot you?!”

“Your soldier’s __suck__ ,” Paul growls breathlessly. When Negan goes for a second swing, Paul stops the bat in its tracks, gripping the width with as much strength as he can muster in just the one hand. “And the apple doesn’t fall too far--”

Daryl can hear Paul’s grunt, louder to his ears than the gunfire, and he watches in awe as Paul slams the handle of the bat into Negan’s face, cracking against his nose, Negan’s own fists smashing his fat mouth. Then Paul pulls back and slams a mighty punch with his right arm to Negan’s jaw, coaxing blood to splatter out and stain Lucille as the bat lands in the dirt.

Daryl ducks belatedly as a shot fires from behind, not having to turn to know Tara’s watching his back as he stands in the middle of a firefight, gawking like an idiot. But the sight in front of him is almost _mesmerizing_  and he can’t look away.

Paul hauls Negan up before he stumbles, spins him around, and wraps his arm around the fucker’s neck in a choke-hold.

“Nobody move!” he yells The usual calm contained within his tone is nowhere to be found. His beanie has fallen off in the skirmish, or perhaps had been pulled, leaving his hair sticking up in a wild mess. It matches his frenzy perfectly.

“Hold your damn fire!” Negan booms. “Nobody pull any fucking triggers--”

Paul grabs Negan’s gun from the holster just as easily as he’d done to Daryl earlier that day. He points the weapon to Negan’s head with his finger steady on the trigger.

“I’d listen to him,” he breathes.

The Saviors do.

“Okay…” Negan swallows. “Now you listen to __me.__ You’re not going to survive this. You get that, right? Even if you kill me, they’re still going to mow you the fuck down. Assuming you don’t want to die as much as __I__  don’t want to die, where do we go from here?”

“You’re right. I don’t want to die, but I’m not afraid of it. Not like you.” Paul presses the muzzle of the gun harder against Negan’s temple, earning a wince. “If shooting you right now means I die, too, then I’ll do it. Because it also means that all _my_  people have to deal with are your shitty soldiers, and then this whole thing will be over. You’ll die a coward and I’ll die a martyr, and these people? They get to live. I think that’s a fair trade.”

“Who the fuck are you, you fucking shit?”

“Hi,” Paul responds. “I’m Jesus.”

Negan snorts.

“Yeah, _that_  was it. And people think I have a God complex… You’re that little shit from Hilltop, right? Sneaky motherfucker. I’d be impressed if I didn’t want to rip your guts out. Already had to do that once today.”

“We can avoid _all_ of this if you do what I say. You tell your men to stand down. Once they leave, I’ll let you go.”

“Once they leave?” Negan chuckles. “Rick will try to fucking kill me-- Like he _just_  did before you showed up! Do you think I’m stupid? No, that’s not gonna work. What we need is to figure out--”

That thought is cut off by an ear piercing roar. Daryl’s eyes dart to the gate as it’s shoved open, widening when he spots a fucking __tiger__  prancing through. It lunches with a second roar, latching onto the arm of one of the Saviors, it’s claws digging into the back of the another that had tripped in shock.

Negan, with his face full of true terror, rams his head back in the sudden chaos, jamming his skull into Paul’s nose.

_“Ugh--”_

Paul stumbles back, gun clattering to the ground as he reaches to cover his face.

It’s then that Negan plucks Lucille from the ground and begins a sprint towards the gates, trying to bypass Ezekiel and the men that had followed the tiger into Alexandria.

“The truck! The fucking truck!” he screeches to whatever Saviors are listening above the scramble. “Run!”

The word jump-starts Daryl back into motion. He finds himself racing towards Paul, grabbing at the back of the dusty leather coat when the younger man tries to regain his footing in an attempt to follow after Negan.

“Paul, _don’t,”_ he growls, yanking him until his back hits Daryl’s chest.

They spot Rick trying to give chase as well, gun raised as he shoves through retreating Saviors, but Ezekiel blocks his path before anyone can even call out to him. The sighs of relief are starting to stack up.

Grabbing Paul around the shoulders, Daryl tucks him into his body, trying to lead him away like he’d done with Tara earlier. They only get a few feet before Paul is pushing at him to let go.

There’s blood still dripping from his nose, pooling onto his lips and chin. It doesn’t look broken, is still upturned the way it should be and not bent or bumpy, but Daryl doesn’t know for sure.

He doesn’t have a rag on him, so he presses his sleeve up against the nostrils, tilting Paul’s head back and keeping it steady when he flinches.

“Hold up,” Daryl snaps, trying his best to ignore the sounds of a tiger ripping people apart mere feet away from where they’re standing.

Daryl wipes at the blood with his sleeve as gently as he can, watching as Paul’s eyes shut tight. Then he grabs at the back of Paul’s head. His fingers slip into the hair at the base, guiding him forward, bending both of them until they’re hunched and huddled together. Daryl presses his forehead to Paul’s, his heavy heartbeat drumming throughout his whole body, causing his vision to pulsate, but he keeps his focus and pinches the reckless ninja’s bleeding nose with his own thumb and forefinger.

Paul hisses through his teeth at the added pain. He grabs at Daryl’s wrists, but doesn’t attempt to pry the hand away. He must know trying to stop Daryl would be nothing more than a futile effort.

“That was fuckin’ stupid,” Daryl finds himself mumbling. Paul doesn’t open his eyes to look at him, but he rolls his forehead against Daryl’s in either protest or agreement. Daryl doesn’t know.

They were okay; Rick, Michonne, Glenn, Aaron, Tara. __All__ of them were okay. His family. And Paul… Paul, despite his stupid fucking stunt. He was okay, too. He was in front of Daryl, alive and shaking from the adrenaline with his nose bleeding out against Daryl’s hand. But he stayed in the position he’d been manhandled into, stayed leaning against Daryl, joined so close that their matted, windblown hair was starting to curl within each other’s strands; so close that their breaths were indistinguishable.

“No, what _you_  did was fucking stupid. You just ran off,” Paul replies after a belated stretch of time. It comes out nasally and thick, but not accusatory. “I had to think of something. There weren’t a lot of options.”

“They would’ve got us both. Had to keep ‘em off you. Thought you might do something, didn’t know it’d be that dumb. You coulda got yourself killed, asshole.”

“Well, you could have, too. You almost did.” One eye cracks open. It’s glossy with unshed tears from the blunt trauma, but the strength there is astounding. “You trusted me to save you? To save _all_  of you?”

Daryl looks down to where his bloody fingers are pinched to the soft, narrow tip of Paul’s nose. Yeah… __Yes__ , he had trusted Paul with that. He’d trusted Paul with not only his life, but the lives of those he cared for dearly. And he’d come through. He’d _saved_  them all.

“Yeah, well. Didn’t see no one else around. Wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t, but I had to think you’d do somethin’…”

“You and Rick didn’t leave me behind, remember? I wouldn’t leave you guys. I wouldn’t leave _you._  Not at Sanctuary and not here.”

“You can’t-- Why--” he begins to say, stuttering over his words, but he has no idea on what should come next. _Don’t say shit like that,_ is a possibility. But he wouldn’t really man it. He doesn’t care what Paul says anymore, just as long as he sticks around to say it. Daryl clears his throat. He tilts his chin up to gesture towards Paul’s nose. “S’it broken?”

“I dunno. I-- uh, no. I don’t think so.”

Nodding, Daryl grabs at Paul’s wrist and grips his fingers, using them to replace his own so he can take a step back.

“You need ice?”

“I’m fine.”

“My friend!” Ezekiel greets, stepping up to join Daryl and Paul in their little corner. Daryl can see the tiger not too far behind him, still chewing on the dead bodies.

“Ezekiel. How’d you know--”

“I didn’t,” he reassures. “It was a happy accident that I had already been on my way to speak with Rick. The week has come to an end and I wanted to be sure our plans would be put into action swiftly. The Kingdom is eager to see the fall of the Saviors.”

“You made it here just in time. This could have been… _very_  bad.”

Paul catches Daryl’s eye. But Ezekiel doesn’t give them the moment.

“It almost was.” The tiger saunters over to them, taking position at Ezekiel’s side. He pats the large head fondly, barking a jovial laugh. “Good girl, Shiva! You were wonderful.”

A fucking pet tiger? Daryl eyes it -- _her_  -- warily, but the animal gives all its attention to her master.

Daryl, Paul, and Ezekiel all look up when Rick approaches. He’s got his arm around Carl, who looks the least shaken of them all. Daryl and the boy share a nod, but it’s Rick that speaks first.

“Jesus, Ezekiel. Thank you both.”

“It is my pleasure,” Ezekiel declares with a little bow.

Paul is a little _less_  thrilled, it seems.

“Today wasn’t your best day,” he tells Rick, dropping the hand from his nose. Daryl squints at it; there’s dried blood smeared around the bottom half of his face, but it doesn’t look to be dripping anymore. “I don’t know, I just… You need to do betternext time.”

If Rick is surprised by the stern demand, he doesn’t show it. He nods deeply instead, agreeing.

“I know,” he drawls. “It could have worked, but yeah, I get it. No more goin’ off half-cocked. We make plans, we stick to ‘em--”

“No,” Paul argues, cutting Rick off. “I don’t think you really understand what’s at stake here. _All_  of this falls apart without you, Rick. All of it.”

Daryl, Rick, Ezekiel, and Carl are all silently staring at Paul, none of them quite sure what to say. Ezekiel exhales audibly and pats Shiva’s head once more.

“Come,” he tells the tiger. “We shall check on our warriors and wait for plans to be discussed. I will not head far. Call for me when you are ready.”

No one acknowledges him leave. When Ezekiel is our of ear shot, Paul continues his spirited speech, lowering the volume a couple of notches.

“This wouldn’t be happening without you. You give people courage, you inspire people to stand up, to fight for what’s right. We can’t get that anywhere else. Gregory hides behind his walls because he wants things to be easy; he rolled over to Negan immediately. And Ezekiel means well, but no one knows what to really make of him. He hated Negan, but that was nothing more than a secret until you came around and showed us all that we _could_  make a stand. He’s just following your lead. And Negan? He rules by fear… Or by manipulating his people into believing he’s the only thing keeping them alive. They worship him. It’s all about ego. But you? Rick, you’re building something. I can see it, I could from the moment you and Daryl brought me here. And everyone else can because you’ve shown them. When you’re done, the world will be changed… renewed. __Better__. And I wanna be apart of that. I will do _whatever_  I can to make that a reality.”

Dropping a hand onto Rick’s shoulder, Paul’s expression turns a little softer.

“You’re a leader we can follow,” he tells Rick finally, after having gotten everything else off his chest. “So just be careful of where you’ve got us going.”

“I will,” Rick says. It’s sounds like a promise to himself more than anything. “We stick to the plan.”

“He’ll come back,” Daryl says softly, figuring it’s an okay time to jump in now. “It’s done now. No more deal. He’s gonna drive right up to our gates, just like the Governor did. We’re outta time.”

“We’re not.” Rick shakes his head. “We’re not out, we’re just gonna have to move faster. Negan’ll head back to Sanctuary, try to regroup before he makes his next move.”

“We can do everything we planned, but we have to do it tonight.”

“Tonight?” Rick and Daryl ask in unison.

“Tonight,” Paul confirms. “He won’t expect it. He’ll think we’re as scattered as he is.”

“Then we’ll hit ‘em with everything we have.”

“Burn ‘em to the ground.”

The three men look to Carl as the young boy speaks up for the first time, telling them simply and darkly:

_“End it.”_

And they will. Daryl knows they will. It’s time to finish this.

* * *

 

They bury their dead, the poor few that had been caught in the crossfire. They burn the bodies of the Saviors.

Paul doesn’t stay. Even with Daryl’s attempt at a protest, he insists he needs to head back to Hilltop to gather their forces. Hitting Negan as soon and as fast as they can is their top priority. But as a consolation, Paul takes Glenn with him for backup, and to also reunite him with Maggie before they’re separated once more. No matter how much she wants to stand with them and fight, she can’t, but she __will__  be the driving force behind Hilltop’s defense and that is far too important to ignore.

With Glenn and Paul back on the road, Daryl helps Michonne carry Spencer from his house. Daryl hadn’t known Negan had killed him, sliced his stomach open and let his guts spill out onto the wooden floor. Daryl doesn’t want to wonder if Spencer had given Negan a “reason.” He doesn’t want to wonder what had happened in those last moments and he doesn’t want anyone else to have to, so he puts it upon himself to deal with disposing of the intestines and wiping away the blood that hadn’t already seeped into the wood.

Michonne tries valiantly to hold back tears as she wraps a sheet gently around Spencer’s body, cradling his head as she tucks the cloth around him. Daryl lets her be, keeps his eyes on the grains of dirt he scoops up into a pile. Rosita kneels only a few feet away, fastening a cross to mark his grave, etching his name into the little twigs with the tip of her pocket knife. Daryl won’t ask if she had been there in the room when Negan had done it, if she had to witness another death of someone she cared about at the hands of the same sick motherfucker. The way she’s keeping it together is both admirable and worrisome because Daryl knows what trying to go it alone feels like; how it can tear apart what little else is still left. Daryl knows Rosita won’t let it. He knows she can’t.

However, Paul and Glenn aren’t the only ones to leave while the rest of the Alexandrian’s try to clean up, regroup, and mourn. Eugene had gone away with Bruce to collect the ammo they’d been making and storing at the factory the mullet-man had once taken Abraham to. They were going to need those bullets now more than ever, and Eugene was determined to get them back during this mad scramble for organization. Rick had let him go, unable to persuade him otherwise and unwilling to leave the rest of his family without sufficient means of defending themselves.

Ezekiel falls back, as well; with his guards and pet tiger trailing behind. But Rick still watches the gate long after his departure, keeping an eye out for any Saviors who might dare to attack so soon. He doesn’t even look from the road when Carl approaches and shouts up to him. Daryl shakes his head and gets back to digging.

He’d pulled his vest and flannel hoodie off, ignoring the blood stains from Paul’s nose that seemed to blend in with the burgundy plaid anyhow. He was left in a sleeveless t-shirt, the thin fabric quickly dampening with sweat as he picked up the pace. Others dig more spots around him, adding holes as well as sweat and tears to their little cemetery.

The smoke from the burning fire clouds the already grayed skies.

They stay like this for hours, all of them. Picking up the broken pieces that have been cracked further, readying their weapons and their goodbyes. Keeping their eyes forward because looking away might cost them the last second they have alive.

They stay like this, waiting for Paul and Ezekiel to return with an army to join their own.

Daryl looks into the mirror above the sink. His eyes are blue slits behind tangled hair, his face dark with dirt and anger. He looks down into the sink, at the murky brown residue that had been left behind when the water swirled sluggishly down the drain. A deep breath then his eyes close and his skin prickles with the thought of what’s to come.

There has always been a fight -- then, now -- and that won’t change. The fight for survival is one Daryl has been intimate with for a long time. With his old man, with Merle; at the camp, at the prison, at Woodbury; through the streets, through the woods, through zones that were supposed to be safe but probably never truly were.

The fight for Alexandria and how they all pulled together. Then, in that clearing, when it all fell apart. And after. At Sanctuary. Stripped naked and locked away, beaten until all sides of his body bloomed patches of purple. Daryl had been fighting all his life and he’d continue to fight until he no longer lived, because he’s not fighting for just himself; he’s fighting for Rick and Carol and Maggie and Glenn and Michonne, for Tara and Sasha and Eugene and Rosita. For Abraham. For Beth. For Tyreese and Hershel. For Bob and Andrea and Dale and Lori and T-Dog and Denise. He’s fighting for Carl and Judith, a future for them and the unborn baby still growing inside of Maggie. He’s fighting for Dwight, despite his anger and hatred because he knows what he really feels, and for Sherry who still tries to make the best out of her fucked up situation. Daryl is fighting for people like them to be able to turn away from people like Negan. And he’s fighting for Paul. He’s fighting for that idiot who saved his life, saved his family, and because he knows that Paul won’t ever stop fighting either. None of them ever will.

A knock on the door allows him to exhale. Daryl grabs the hoodie he’d thrown over the toilet lid and shrugs it back on over his head, rotating his shoulder as his arms slide through the sleeves. The gentle knock repeats. He grabs his crossbow from the floor and places it across his shoulder, where it has and always will belong.

Daryl opens the door and comes face-to-face with Michonne. The sweat has been wiped from her skin, her expression of grief replaced with perseverance.

“They here?”

“Not yet,” she answers softly. “But everyone’s gathered up. Rick’s waiting for you.”

Daryl nods and moves to step forward, but Michonne steps directly into his path. Without warning, she pulls him into a fierce hug.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he tells her gruffly because he’s not quite sure what else there is to say, what she wants to hear in this moment. What he would want to hear. What he __does__. “So will Rick.”

Michonne nods and pulls away, looking at Daryl with dark, shiny eyes. She raises her head slowly, chin jutted out. Mouth steady as the corners curl into a pained smile.

“So are you,” she tells him. If there’s any fear behind that conviction, she does a damn good job of masking it. “Daryl. _So are you.”_

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

She takes his words as promise and straightens even further, dropping her arms from his sides.

“Come on.”

They head through the house in silence, footsteps bouncing off the white walls. They side-step Judith’s toys, the blanket bunched on the floor that he imagines Carl had been sitting on with his baby sister before Negan had shown up to cause another stir.

He breathes in deep when the outside air hits his face.

Daryl scans the crowd surrounding Rick as he and Michonne make their way forward. Tara stands with Rosita, Sasha, Aaron, and Eric, clustered together at the edge of a larger group. Carl stays front and center, watching Rick as he holds Judith, Gabriel at his side. Their people slip away to allow room for Daryl and Michonne to get through, to take up their posts on Rick’s right and left. And then the three of them look out at the faces of their family.

They are scared. They are determined. They are _ready._ Every single one of them.

“Jesus is coming,” Tobin announces from behind. Daryl turns along with Rick and Michonne to watch as the gate is pushed open, slowly revealing the clarity beyond. The road, the trees, their cars and walker spikes; background dressing for the vision of Jesus marching the colonists forward. He turns his head to the side, mouthing a reply to whatever words Glenn had said to him. But when he looks forward once more, he and his people growing ever closer, his eyes lock onto Daryl’s.

A roar reverberates around and through them, familiar and unsettling. And Daryl spots Ezekiel coming up the way, leading his own pack only feet from Hilltop’s. Person after person, more than just a number, _lives_  ready to stand with them. They’ve never been this big before. Not even at the prison after they’d taken in Woodbury’s last citizens, only to be dwindled back down to the core.

_Your world’s about to get a whole lot bigger._ Well, Paul hadn’t been lying.

Rick strides forward to meet Paul as he steps into Alexandria. He clasps hands with him and then with Glenn, and he nods to the rest as they file in. He waits for Ezekiel to follow through, clasping his hand just as tightly. Daryl can see the amazement on Rick’s face as he watches all of the Kingdom dwellers circle in around their Hilltop and Alexandrian companions.

Paul steps into the spot beside Daryl as Glenn slides into the spot beside Michonne. But Ezekiel keeps by the gate with his tiger and watches as Rick turns to address all those that are here to follow him forward.

“There’s not much I can say that we don’t already know,” Rick calls out to the hundreds of faces watching him. “From experience, from common sense, from __fear__. Whatever you think can happen tonight, it probably will. But whatever comes from _this _,__ from choosin’ to stand and fight back, to fight for the lives that are __our__  own and not Negan’s… It’ll be worth it. I can promise you, it _will._ Everything we’ve lost and everything we’re about to lose, it won’t be for nothin’. Because it means that we’re still standing and that we’ll keep standing long after the threat is gone. You people look to me for leadership… and I know, I know sometimes I haven’t been what you wanted. I know that sometimes I haven’t done it right. But I’m here _now._ I’m not goin’ anywhere. And I won’t stop because all of you won’t stop, not until this is over. Hell, not even then! _We are survivors._ We will always be survivors. Together. We spend all our time fightin’ the dead and fearin’ the living, but we can fight back against both. Whether it seems like it or not. So we step out, get in our trucks, on our horses, carry our guns and knives… and we do just that, we _fight._ We fight for everyone that’s here, for everyone that isn’t, and for everyone that will be some day. Because we know how and we know why, and we know that when _we_  win, everything that comes after will be for _us!”_

Cheers swell through the mass, howls of agreement and support for Rick and Rick’s words cementing them into their first stage of action.

“Are we ready?” Ezekiel bellows, spurring those cheers into an uproar that spreads across everyone in waves.

Daryl sees Michonne grip Rick’s hand, reaching out to Carl with her other as he carries his little sister towards his father. And when Rick looks to Daryl for the reassurance that could only be sought from one another, from brother to brother, Daryl nods. Because for the first time since he’d seen Rick break down so utterly and completely in that clearing, for the first time since he’d slowly began gearing himself up with visits to Hilltop, Daryl can see that Rick is _back._ He’s confident, he’s courageous, and he will not back down. Rick will get them through like he has so many times before.

It’s when Rick looks away to grab his daughter from his son that Daryl turns to face Paul. He watches him watch the crowd, eyes darting back and forth as if taking in the sight of every single person and everything that they could possibly be feeling in this moment. But what is Paul feeling? And still, Daryl can’t tell… Paul closes himself off because he feels as if he has to. Daryl knows it better than anyone.

That thought pushes him to reach out, to tap his elbow against Paul’s, gaining his attention. Daryl would think Paul had almost forgotten he’d been standing there if it weren’t for the way his eyes shine clear and calculating.

“Alright?”

“Yes,” Paul answers, but the troubled frown that follows is less than reassuring. He leans in to whisper to Daryl. _“No._  I’m nervous as hell,” he breathes, a stilted confession to only Daryl’s ear. “I couldn’t find Gregory. I didn’t exactly go looking, I needed to focus on gathering anyone that would follow me here, but…”

“He was gone?”

“I can’t say for sure.”

Paul leans away from Daryl and takes a deep breath, his searching gaze roving over Daryl’s face in earnest. He doesn’t tip his head down or try to hide behind his hair, he simply stays still and watches.

“But Rick is right,” he says at last. “Whatever’s about to happen, the end result will be worth it.”

* * *

 

 

The trek to Sanctuary isn’t an arduous one, but it begins to test Daryl’s patience. The farther away from Alexandria they get, the more their forthcoming actions sink into his brain. He won’t allow himself to think about what will happen beyond going in, taking out Saviors, and watching as many backs as he can. He can see that others are trying to do the same.

He’d taken one of the Kingdom’s horses, preferring the easier accessibility of commanding his own transportation. Tara chose to join him, keeping one hand gripping into the leather of his vest while the other hand held her gun at the ready. Daryl had minimal experience with the animals, his encounter with Hershel’s Nervous Nelly being the most in depth, but he felt confident enough up on his clomping perch.

The rest had split up, dividing out the vehicles and the rest of the horses, and even still some had to rough it on foot. Sasha was one of the latter, trailing behind at a distance to make the best use of her sniping skills when the opportunity presented itself.

But while Daryl peeked around often to feel that brief relief whenever his eyes landed on Rick or Glenn or Michonne or Aaron through a dusty, half-cracked window, Daryl most often found his gaze wandering to wear Paul sat and swayed in the back of Rosita’s truck. She was farthest ahead, leading at a steady speed. Alex was in the passenger seat with Kal, Eduardo, and Dante in the back. But Paul had chosen to sit in the metal bed, his usual wide-eyes squinting as he stared out into nature’s distance. Watching for any Saviors lying in wait for an ambush, no doubt.

Daryl has no choice but to leave Paul to his treeline scouting in order to watch his own path as Ezekiel trails it first.

He’d told Daryl, when he asked, that Carol had already made her way to Hilltop to stay with Maggie and help her defend their walls if necessary. Gabriel, Carl, and a few others had stayed behind at Alexandria to do the same and Daryl figured Kingdom had a similar situation. But Ezekiel’s people did make up the majority of who they had with him now, so Daryl couldn’t be sure. He just knew that Carol was safe with Maggie and he hoped it would stay that way.

It doesn’t take too much longer before Daryl witnesses Paul reach up to tap the hood of the truck, prompting Rosita to stop. Daryl pulls on the reigns as everyone else follows suit. Rick and Michonne are the first to meet him as he hops out of the bed of the truck.

“On foot now?”

Paul nods at Rick’s question, sweeping everyone back into motion.

Ezekiel order three of his men to stay behind to tend to the horses and cars for when everyone makes their return, and then orders five more to wait for gunfire before they follow with their van-load of biters. After that, he and his tiger line up with Rick, Michonne, and Paul. Daryl finds himself being drawn over, too; bow off his shoulder, arrows at the ready.

And together, they march on.

Rick, Michonne, Glenn, Paul, Rosita, Glenn, Sasha, Tara, Aaron, Eric, Ezekiel, Kal, Eduardo, Dante, Earl, Alex, Morgan, Jerry… Daryl stands with them; faces he knows and loves, faces he doesn’t but now owes. Family, strangers, friends.

He looks forward as the factory that makes up Sanctuary comes into view… as do the hundreds of Savior’s who are out front and waiting. None of their steps falter. They keep moving, keep firm and unbreakable, and they meet the Savior’s in the middle of the road.

Dwight finds Daryl the moment Daryl finds him. He’s on the front lines, near Simon, near the empty spot they all know Negan will occupy momentarily. He’s trying to tell him, with the set of his mouth, that this is wrong. And it __is__  wrong. Getting organized after Alexandria is smart, expected, but they’re out here and waiting… They knew the plan. They _know_  it.

Daryl chances a glance at Paul. And it strikes him immediately, that look of utter disturbance on the younger man’s face… Ignoring Gregory had been the wrong move.

The door swings open and Gregory stumbles out, kicked into view by Negan. He doesn’t look harmed, but he appears harassed by the situation. Daryl scowls.

“Well, well, well…” Negan rumbles, that ever-present smile becoming uglier than ever. “You were right after all, you little fucking snitch. Good for fucking _you!”_

Negan hauls Gregory with him towards the front of the line, much like he’d done to Rick in the clearing. The Saviors part for him with ease, making way for him to take his position up front and center, flanked by Dwight and Simon. He throws the old man to his feet, pressing the tip of Lucille to his back to assure he stays put.

“This would have been a surprise, Rick, I gotta say. You thought you could play me this whole time, right? That’s what that shit-show back at your little piss-poor community was all about. Open fire on me, get me… _angry._ Get me reactionary. All the while, you and your little rats were scurrying behind the scenes, readying yourselves for this very moment. But it didn’t turn out, did it?” He chuckles deeply, swinging his bat to rest upon his shoulder. Dwight tries not to jerk at the movement, but Daryl sees it happen. “Hilltop’s __leader__  spilled the beans, and man, did they taste shitty to me! None of you get it. Especially not _you.”_  

Negan nods to Paul, pointing Lucille straight at him, a sneer spread over the stark lines of his face. Daryl isn’t sure who he should keep his focus on; his fingers tighten painfully over his crossbow, his lungs constricting anxiously.

“He told me all about you. And after what you pulled back there? Sticking a gun to __my fucking head!__  Well, I’ve taken notice. You and Rick -- and you too, Daryl, you maybe more than most -- are the dumbest motherfucking motherfuckers I’ve ever had the displeasure of laying my eyes on! And to be honest, I’m damn tired of looking at all of you! Why don’t you go ahead and tell them, Gregory. Get your people back in line… or I’ll do it for you.”

Gregory pulls himself shakily back onto his feet, tugging at his untucked shirt. His watery eyes scan for his people in the hoard, although he purposefully ignores looking straight at Paul.

“Hilltop is with the Saviors,” Gregory announces. “We are with them and we have always been with them. If any of my people are smart, you will take this opportunity to come with me back home. Negan is allowing us to continue to live alongside him in peace despite what Rick and any of these other murderers have told you! We can go back together now and everything will be alright.”

_So you can hide behind these walls and you can pretend that everything will be just fine no matter the outcome…_ Just like Paul had said. Daryl remembers that. And here Gregory was, trying to make yet another deal with the devil.

“Tick-tock…” Negan trails from behind Gregory.

The first person moves.

It’s Kal.

He moves from the spot behind Paul and slowly steps around the rest of the front line, joining Gregory as he stands before Negan. Paul’s eyes follow his friend the whole way, never letting up, never losing that shine of shock and… __betrayal__. Daryl can hear the quiet rush of breath that whooshes past his parted lips.

“This isn’t something we can come back from, Jesus,” he says with a tremor in his voice. “I thought… I mean, It doesn’t matter. But we can go back __now__  and end this without anyone dying.”

“I don’t know about _that,”_ Negan boasts, flicking his tongue out to suck his front teeth. Growing smugness emanates from him. “Rick, Daryl, that little shit who calls himself Jesus… It’s too late for them. But I _am_  promising right now that anyone else who turns around and runs their asses back home will get to keep their lives and the lives of their friends and family, assuming they follow your lead or weren’t dumb enough to come all the way out here in the first place.”

There’s a stretch where no one speaks or moves; where Daryl can only stare at the side of Paul’s face, taking in the tautness of his neck that reminds him of a scream trying to force its way out, the angry set of his brows, the eyes that have dimmed so drastically. Like all the color has been sucked out, making them appear translucent in the fading light.

But then it happens again. The movement. People step forward, out of their pack, and line up with Gregory and Kal. Eyes downcast and shoulders slumped in shame. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… It ends there. Seven people from Hilltop -- eight with Kal, nine with Gregory -- have made their new decision. Only eight. There’s not so much as a twitch from those who remain on Rick’s side.

Negan slams Lucille into the ground.

“You fucking liar!” he shouts to Gregory without his usual calm and control. Gregory spins around fearfully, his joiners stumbling back. Negan grabs him by the collar. “Most of Rick’s men-- That’s what you said! Were you fucking lying to my face?”

“N-no, no! I swear--”

“Then maybe you just don’t know how to count. Is that it?” Negan doesn’t allow Gregory to answer. He makes it so he can’t, in fact, when he knee slams into the old man’s gut. Kal doesn’t dare try to catch him as he crumples down onto the road once more. “You’re _pathetic._ Get the fuck outta here before I go back on my word.”

Daryl and the rest of the survivors watch as Gregory scrambles to his feet and hobbles away, leading his group of eight back down the road they’d just come from. Kal shoots a look over his shoulder, but Daryl notices that Paul doesn’t bother glancing his way. _It’s not your fault,_ he wants to say. But now is not the time and he doubts those are the words Paul would want to hear anyways.

Rick, still with his full resolve, speaks up.

“We’re done _kneeling,_ Negan. We’re done givin’ you supplies. You can surrender now and then we’ll leave. Things’ll be changed. Alexandria, Hilltop, Kingdom… Sanctuary. We can all live on our own, right alongside each other. All you need to do is say you surrender and then this’ll be done.”

Negan chortles, grinning as if the whole thing -- Rick’s words, the army standing face-to-face with his men -- was nothing more than one big joke.

“No, Rick. You _aren’t_ done. Not until I say so. And we…” He gestures to his Saviors proudly, holding his arms out wide, Lucille acting as an extention. “We ain’t surrendering, fucker.”

Rick pulls a gun from his holster as fast as he can blink. He holds it up, inches from Negan’s forehead. Daryl’s crossbow comes up, too, setting its aim on Simon. Other weapons rise around them, from all sides and temperaments.

“You ever hear about the guy who brought a baseball bat to a gunfight, _fucker?”_ Rick spits.

No time for a response.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Bodies drop around them, dead by the bullets shot from above. More bodies scramble, ducking and crawling away, desperate to find cover before any other shots can be fired.

“Get down!” Daryl shouts.

He shoves Rick out of the way of Negan’s swing, counting on Michonne to drag him away as he grabs Paul around the waist and spins him into his own chest. He narrowly misses the fatality of the bullet he feels graze his temple. Like fucking Andrea all over again.

But it doesn’t knock him down this time, it speeds him up, helps Daryl pull himself and Paul over towards the defaced angel statue. He’s barely gotten them both behind their minimal cover before Paul pulls a gun, from his own holster for once, and shoots the nearest Savior; two to the chest and then a third to the head, dropping him permanently to the concrete.

An arrow from Daryl’s crossbow zings through the air, embedding itself through the back of another Savior’s skull. Then he presses his back flat against the statue and reaches for Paul, gathering the front of his shirt in his fist. Daryl pulls Paul into his chest, using himself as an extra layer of protection in case the statue gets blown to chunks.

Paul twists at the waist and shoots another of Negan’s men, dropping him before he can jam his knife into Dante’s chest. And from in front of him, with one hand pressed into Daryl’s stomach as he leans around, Paul shoots again; again and again and again until his gun clicks and he has to duck back down to safely pull another clip from his coat pocket.

When Paul stands again, jamming the clip into place, he reaches up with a gloved finger to touch at Daryl’s head wound. He winces from the tender brush of leather, shutting one eye tight but keeping the other open to watch the road for their van.

“Push forward!” Daryl can hear Rick yell through the mayhem. Paul pulls his hand away from Daryl’s temple and ducks, reaching out to hold his piece at the level of Daryl’s waist.

One, two, three, four; Paul fires into the distance, into the blurring crowd of warring bodies. Daryl doesn’t know if he hits anyone, but keeping them at bay is good enough.

_Try and lock Negan in. Surround the factory._ That had been the plan. Executing it was always going to be the hardest part. Even now, Daryl’s not sure how it’s working.

So he peeks around and aims another arrow, having to flinch back before he can shoot when the statue blocking him chips, the edge of the angel’s sleeve crumbling. He presses up tighter against his temporary shield, breath coming in fast gaps, and stares down at Paul’s fixed expression.

That’s when his stupid ninja reaches into one of the pockets on his pants and pulls out a grenade, his gaze flicking up to Daryl’s with purpose.

“Where the fuck…” he begins to say, but he doesn’t bother finishing it. He grabs the grenade from Paul’s steady hand, trading it for his crossbow.

Shaking out his shoulders, Daryl pulls the pin and hops out of cover, swinging his arm in a full motion and letting the grenade loose at the peak position so it arcs through the air in a course set to land among the throng of Saviors that are rushing to find better cover behind their fences.

_“Grenade!”_

Paul’s face scrunches when he shouts the warning as loudly as he can, hoping to warn their own people away from the impending explosion. He reaches his arms out for Daryl, grasping at Daryl frantically as he tries to pull him back into cover before any more bullets can soar his way.

The crossbow gets shoved back into Daryl’s hands as Paul pivots away from him, darting out into the open on the opposite side as the blast rocks the street. He shields the side of his face with his right arm, firing his sidearm with his less-steady left hand. Daryl trails after him, one of his arrows zooming farther and faster towards their destination, planting itself through someone’s heart.

As Daryl moves to give backup to Rick and Michonne, Paul kicks his way towards Rosita and Glenn, putting his gun away in favor of the daggers kept at his hips. No matter how much he wants to watch after Paul, to haul him back towards his side and keep him as safe as he can, Daryl has to let them keep on their separate paths.

His crossbow becomes a melee weapon the closer he gets, swinging it out and up to knock an enemy beneath the jaw, then crossing over to smack one down across the head. Rick fires into a Savior behind Daryl, Michonne slicing up those ahead. They almost miss the van that’s speeding down the road, swerving intp a turn, projecting itself through Negan’s fences. Daryl spots a few Saviors go down with it, thrown back by the impact or crushed to the wall.

_S’bout damn time,_ he thinks, allowing himself a longer breath. He flips his knife from its sheath and lunges at the next enemy as the doors of the van are pulled open by Tara and Alex. Blood splatters across his face in the fray.

Walkers begin to spill out once the doors are forced open, tripping over themselves as they growl and claw, spreading out mindlessly at the sounds that draw them closer. Daryl grabs the thinning hair at the back of one of the dead’s skull, forcing the decrepit body to descend upon the woman he kicks to the street, dropping the gnawing monster atop her as she screams and fights. But the teeth sink in, tearing her flesh apart, and Daryl moves on before he can start to register the sickness of what he’d just done.

Another van races towards the mingled groups, skidding to a halt far down the road. Daryl spots Paul in the haze, cutting his way towards the doors, jamming one blade in deep and grazing another to slash across a throat. Sasha covers him, Ezekiel and his tiger zeroing in on her targets so she can give more of her attention to helping unload their next shipment of the dead. All Daryl knows is that this tactic is the only good thing they got out of the scumbag that called himself the Governor.

More screams circulate around them, drowning out the screeches, the booms, the groaning, the clatter. Anguish. Pain. Panic. Daryl clenches his fist around his knife and turns away from the van, launching himself onto the back of a big man trying to fight his way towards Rick with a stolen gun. Joey, his name had been, Daryl thinks. And then they both fall to the ground. He rolls off Joey with a grunt, kicking out when the guy lands atop him. Joey’s eyes flash when they take in Daryl’s face, the recognition of impending revenge masking the previous reactionary instinct of fight. Daryl doesn’t linger. His blade slams straight through the softer flesh of the ear, the body going limp and lifeless within seconds. Daryl shoves hard at the man to push him off and then scoots backward, re-obtaining the gun to shoot up at one of the dead that careens towards him.

A hand grabs onto Daryl’s bicep when the dead falls dead a second time. He’s helped to his feet by Aaron, who is only able to glance reassuringly at Daryl before he’s rushing off in the direction of Eric and Andy, offering them more pertinent assistance.

And then they’re on the move again, pushing the Saviors into Sanctuary, spreading out thinner and thinner to surround the factory alongside the walkers chasing after life.

“He’s inside!” Rick shouts again, shooting the door that shuts behind Negan as he slips inside to safety, locking the rest of his people out. “Turn ‘em!”

The call from their leader alerts them to ignore head shots as much as they can, their plan needing as many out here to turn and bear down on Negan and his people trapping them inside for as long as possible.

The sound of another van, their last, revving closer is only drowned out by Ezekiel’s tiger roaring as she attacks, protecting her master from danger.

They keep at it, slashing and shooting their way closer and closer until Negan and his men are trapped inside their own __Sanctuary__  without any clear way of escaping. Not yet.

Out of nowhere, Paul appears, popping up beside Daryl without a breath or a sound.

“Fall back!” Rick orders, repeating it more than once as he sprints around to help gather everyone up.

Daryl whistles, the familiar short high-pitch gaining Rick and Michonne’s attention. They nod when Daryl gestures towards the factory, understanding that he’s about to make a detour but not quite knowing why or for what. They trust him to return safely, but Paul doesn’t. He follows Daryl in a rush around the corner, trying to move the dead out of their path without killing them. Daryl knocks them away, too, and then pauses to beckon Paul to take the lead.

“What else you got on you? No more grenades?”

Paul reaches into the pocket on his thigh without a thought and presents Daryl with a grenade identical to the one he’d given him earlier.

“It’s my last one,” he says, but he hands it over without hesitation. “What are you gonna do?”

Licking his lips, Daryl weighs the tiny, deadly object in his hand. His arm reaches out to press against Paul’s chest, guiding him to follow his backward strides.

“They got some bikes in there. Only need one. And a way to get it.”

Paul’s eyes narrow, but he nods and moves farther back, dropping himself to the ground and covering his head with his arms. Daryl tosses the grenade at the wall and joins him on the ground, covering Paul’s body with his own at the last second as the walkers circle around him.

Paul’s body jolts beneath Daryl’s when the fire cracks and consumes the wall across from them in a rocking boom. Daryl curls in on him further, burying his face into Paul’s shoulder as he cradles the younger man’s head. Paul reaches up, hand patting at Daryl’s own head, his gloved fingers threading through a mess of hair.

“C’mon!” Daryl growls, shoving himself up and shoving a biter back in the same clumsy motion.

Paul kicks another to the ground after pulling himself up onto his feet. He leads the race the the bikes, keeping low through the smoke. Daryl’s at his heels and is the first to fire when the Saviors in the courtyard try to make their last stand. Most of the bikes are scattered, abandoned mid-escape even before Daryl blew their wall to hell. The ones that are undamaged have no keys in sight. But Paul comes forward yet again, saving their asses with his quick thinking and his strange set of skills.

“Watch my back?” he questions, puling the bandanna hanging around his neck to block his nose and mouth. Then he hunches over the motorcycle before Daryl can say a word, entrusting his personal safety to Daryl without a second thought.

Instead of watching Paul’s fingers dance around with purpose, hot-wiring their escape vehicle as fast as he’s able to with only Daryl as protection, he snaps his attention to their surroundings and shoots down the stumbling bodies that set onto their path, never leaving Paul’s side. Impatience begins to mount the longer it to takes, the smoke stifling his senses, choking his lungs and stinging his eyes. He needs more arrows, more bullets, but the knife Paul had given him is still holding well enough.

The bike rumbles to life. When Daryl glances over, he’s met with the sight of Paul straightening up, holding his hands out as if to say _ta-da._ Daryl pulls the strap of his crossbow over his head, settling the weapon to his back, and pushes Paul to the side.

“I’m drivin’,” he grunts out. He swings his leg over the chassis and plants himself far up on the seat. “Hurry up!”

The younger man hops onto the seat behind Daryl, looping his left arm around Daryl’s stomach to hold one of the Savior’s machine guns in his right. The engine revs and the two bodies atop the motorcycle jolt as it accelerates, propelling them forward.

The wheels spin on the turn, sweeping up clumps of grass and dirt that are torn from the earth. They race across the road, zig-zagging through corpses that are walking or otherwise, and Daryl only slows to a crawl when he spots Rick directing small squads, made up of people from all three communities, to take up vantage points around Sanctuary.

“Rick!” Daryl calls out, one hand folding around his mouth to help carry the call. His friend squints over at him. “We stayin’ behind?”

“No!” Rick calls back, voice strained and deep. “You’re comin’ with us! Follow the others up to where we stopped! I’ll be right behind you!”

He nods and kicks the bike back into gear, Paul’s arm tightening around as they rocket forward, trailing those who are already running back to where they’d left their modes of transport. Those staying behind would ensure that Negan and his Saviors would be caught in Sanctuary for as long as possible, and were their to strike down any that would attempt to break free. They needed to stay up high, away from the growing number of dead packing their rotting bodies against all sides of the factory.

But Daryl keeps his face forward and rides, narrowing his eyes while the wind caresses his face. From the caboose to the engine, he leads his people back to Hilltop with his stained fingers clutching the handlebars as the hippie ninja slumps against his back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I put up at the top, this chapter has bits and pieces of dialogue taken from the comics because I'm following the war storyline my own way, but some of this stuff is too good to pass up. Rick's baseball bat line = priceless. I don't personally read the comics, but I've looked through a few issues and I've scoured the wikipedia pages. Also, how could I ever pass up Jesus being a badass against Negan?? I want this in the show so badly. But yes, just to let you know, several pieces of dialogue (Paul's speech to Rick, some of Negan's stuff because I hate him and don't like writing him, to name a few) are pulled from the comics. I thought it be be a fun thing. This is like an alternate-alternate au or something, haha.
> 
> But anyway, I hope you guys are enjoying. There are some chapters that are more action oriented, which are always harder. I like the quiet moments more. But Daryl and Paul fighting side-by-side is something I have a mighty need for, always. I've been feeling kind of down about this fic and writing in general lately, but I will finish it, for the people who are invested and also for myself. I love desus too much to not see this through. Also, I just have to say that the comments I do get are so nice and encouraging, it makes this whole thing worthwhile really. To see that you guys get joy out of this story is so meaningful to me. Thank you. I love knowing your thoughts. <3 And again, sorry for errors.


	6. Dust to Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's not your eyes, it's not what you say  
> It's not your laughter that gives you away  
> You're just lonely, you've been lonely too long  
> All your acting, your thin disguise  
> All your perfectly delivered lines  
> They don't fool me, you've been lonely too long  
> Let me in the walls you built around  
> We can light a match and burn them down  
> Let me hold your hand and dance  
> 'round and 'round the flames in front of us  
> Dust to dust"
> 
> (dust to dust | the civil wars)

The first thing Daryl witnesses when he drives his bike straight through the open gates of Hilltop is Maggie, with all her might, shoving Gregory to the ground. Carol and Glenn are at her flank, a strange mix of worry and morbid interest at what she might do next. Glenn tries to reach for her, to calm his pregnant wife, but Daryl can see Maggie’s mouth moving a mile a minute, her angry cursing drowned out by his sputtering bike.

So he cuts the engine and kicks the stand, his eyes following Paul as the younger man gracefully hops off to strides over quickly.

“There’s no need for violence, _m’am--_ ”

Paul’s stride turns into a sprint as Maggie socks Gregory across the jaw, her shaking body screaming out: “My name is Maggie, asshole! Maggie Rhee!”

Gregory falls onto his ass, grunting as he clutches his mouth. Maggie lunges again, but Glenn and Carol attempt to restrain her as Paul inserts himself into the middle once more. Trying to keep the peace amongst the people. Daryl stays put.

“Stop!” Paul demands. When Gregory tries to stand, Paul puts his hand out to stop him. “What are you doing? Maggie?”

“I know what he did!” she spits venomously, although she doesn’t challenge the hold Carol and Glenn have on her arms. “He came back with Kal and some others, said everyone else was gonna die… Said it was your fault, Jesus. And mine, too. I wanted to go, I wanted to make sure everyone was alright, that Glenn was-- But Carol told me to just wait it out. And I did and then people started showin’ up, but this jackass tried to say--”

“You should all be dead!” Gregory shouts, his facade crumbling as little beads of blood drip from his lip, where Maggie’s fist had smashed the tender skin to his teeth. “All of you! And _you_ , Jesus. How could you do this to us? You made things worse! _You_ did this--”

Maggie shakes Glenn’s hold on her and pulls a Glock from her hip, pushing it past Paul’s stomach to point straight at Gregory’s head. Daryl holds his breath.

“Don’t talk about him,” Maggie grits dangerously. “Don’t even look at him! He’s done everything to help us, to help _you._ You’re the one who should be dead!”

“Maggie…” Glenn pleads, touching his hand to her shoulder. She doesn’t push him away, but she doesn’t lower her gun either.

“I should kill you right now. You deserve it more than any of us.”

“Maggie, don’t…” her husband tries again, for her own sake and not Gregory’s.

Daryl’s fists clench at his sides when Jesus turns into Maggie’s gun, stupidly shielding Gregory from her line of fire. Her eyes flicker up to his, to her friend’s, and even from this distance Daryl can see the emotion in them.

“Glenn’s right. Don’t do this to yourself,” Paul tells her. He presses his gloved fingertips to her gun, holding them atop the barrel. “Not here, in front of these people. You’ll regret it, Maggie. You’ll regret that you let him do this to you.”

Maggie keeps eye contact with Paul. And when she begins to relax her posture, his words sinking in through the anger, she allows Paul to push her gun away from his gut. Glenn takes it from her then, stowing it away in her holster where it belongs. He spins her around and pulls her into his chest.

“I love you,” Daryl hears Glenn whisper into her hair. _“I love you. We’re okay. I love you.”_

Daryl’s held breath finally escapes him. He moves forward, around the back of Glenn and Maggie as Paul stares down at a struggling Gregory. When Daryl reaches Carol, she pulls him into a one-armed hug.

“You’re bleeding,” she says.

He shrugs.

“M’fine. Nothin’ happened here?”

“No,” Carol confirms. She releases him from her grasp, searching his expression while allowing her own to show concern. “Rick and Michonne?”

“Be back soon.”

“What happens next?”

“Don’t know yet. Got ‘em trapped, but that won’t last long. Guess we wait to see what Rick thinks.”

Carol nods and pats Daryl’s face, excusing herself to help Harlan and Alex in the packed infirmary. They didn’t have many casualties, from what he’d seen; and probably not a lot of people had gotten bit, but some had been shot or stabbed, maybe hit enough times to want some pain meds. The doctor had his hands full at the moment and Daryl wasn’t about to squeeze his way into the trailer and take up even more space. He could go into Barrington, wait in Glenn and Maggie’s room until Rick gets back, but--

“Jesus!”

Daryl turns at the call, noticing that Paul had left his position in front of Gregory in favor of stomping over towards the row of trailers opposite Harlan’s.

“Jesus!”

It’s Kal calling out, rushing to catch up to the guy who won’t slow down for him.

“I’m sorry!” he tries again. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know--”

“You _did_  know.” Paul stops and turns, neutrality replaced by raw anger. “You knew Gregory left to tell Negan our plan. You knew when I came here, when I told you I couldn’t find him, and you looked me in the eye and told me you hadn’t seen him. You lied, Kal!”

“Jesus… Look, I didn’t want it to turn out like that. I knew he was going on ahead, but I didn’t know we’d have to choose to stay or go--”

“Because you didn’t figure Negan would be so merciful, right?” Paul argues. “But the second he gave you the chance, you got behind him.”

“You’re acting like I betrayed you!”

“You did! That’s _exactly_  what you did! You could have talked to me. You could have told me you wanted to stay behind with Maggie and Carol. But you chose to go, knowing that making your choice out there would put the rest of us in danger. What if more people had left with you and Gregory? We wouldn’t have stood a chance. Most of us probably would be dead right now, and that wouldn’t be on me, Kal. That’d be on _you.”_

Daryl isn’t the only one to inch closer, drawn in by the sound of another explosive argument, but he ignores all the others in favor of focusing solely on Paul’s intense frustration.

“But you didn’t _know,_ right?” Paul continues. His tone is bleeding with mockery and hatred. Daryl’s never heard either from him before and it’s almost enough to make him take a step back. Almost. “You just do whatever you want without thinking it through, or you let others think it for you. And what happens after doesn’t matter, not if it doesn’t involve you.”

Kal moves his head frantically, caught between shaking and nodding, not sure if he should agree or disagree. His face isn’t visible, but Daryl imagines he might be close to tears.

“No, you’re right,” Kal concedes. “You’re… I mean, I let him get to me, okay? He came to me and he said that the plan wouldn’t work. And I tried to brush him off at first ‘cause he didn’t know shit about what we were doing, but he said that he’d heard things. And that he’d _seen_  things, too. And when Gregory told me that maybe you weren’t doing this for us as much as for yourself… Fuck, I didn’t want to believe him, okay! But he said he saw you with Daryl -- that you kissed him, yknow? And so I started thinking--”

There are gasps torn from those who stand around them as Paul closes the distance between he and Kal and then slams his fist hard into his friend’s jaw. The strength of the punch knocks Kal flat onto his back, downing him like a sack of bricks. His head bangs against the dirt and he yelps at the combined points of pain.

Paul doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t linger. He turns back around without meeting anyone’s eye and continues on his path to the trailers.

Eduardo tries to help Kal up as Daryl walks past them, ignoring everyone else just as Paul had, rushing to catch up before his brain can tell him otherwise.

“I’m… sorry…” Kal mumbles one last time, voice muffled through his hand. It’s as if he hadn’t said a word.

The door to the trailer Paul disappears into is caught in Daryl’s hand and slams shut behind him as he steps into the unfamiliar space. It’s quiet inside compared to everything that had just gone down in quick succession outside. And it’s almost stifling.

It’s a different setup from Carson’s, that’s what he notices first. Daryl is standing in the middle of a kitchenette here, a large couch on the opposite wall, a black table sat in front. There’s a hallway adjacent to him, with three closed doors and a curtain-covered closet. But to his far right is where Paul is standing, rummaging through a row of cabinets that hang above mismatched-shelves with rapid, jerky movements.

The visible shelves are lined with magazine stacks and empty glass vases and scattered spearheads. And as Daryl creeps closer, he spots a photograph propped up in a small, silver frame. It’s of Wes and Alex, he sees; the two of them pressed together in an awkward position but with frozen expressions that showcase a rare form of contentment. From what Paul had told him, about the mistake of getting too close to Alex and letting Alex get too close to him, Daryl knows that what the photograph represents no longer rings entirely true. He averts his eyes before he can start thinking about it too much.

This is Wes and Alex’s trailer, a place Paul and then Daryl had just barged into. Without preamble or pause. He doesn’t want that to bother him as much as it does, Paul being comfortable enough to come in uninvited; even after all the talk about not being on solid ground with either of the two. But the thought sets in motion a strange, uncomfortable squirming inside of his stomach. He’d just have to ignore that, too.

Chewing on his thumb, Daryl watches Paul pull a plastic bin from a high shelf he has to step on tip-toes just to reach properly.

“Sit down,” he tells Daryl in a tone that tries too hard to sound calm.

“Don’t need it.”

Turning, Paul allows Daryl to see his exasperation clearly.

“Carol said you’re bleeding. A bullet grazed your temple. Sit down.”

“M’fine.”

Wrong choice of words, it seems, because they make Paul slam the container onto the table with too much force, the boxes and bottles rattling around inside. The sound and the anger behind it makes Daryl shy away, head jerking and eyes shutting tight on uncontrollable instinct. Paul’s breath escapes him softly.

“When are you gonna stop using yourself as a human shield?” he wonders aloud, meeting Daryl’s gaze when his eyelids flutter open once more. It’s a visible effort for Paul to appear steady. “Twice out there. I appreciate your concern for me, Daryl. Trust me, I __really__ do. But I can take care of myself. And you’re not expendable.”

“Neither are you.”

Paul rolls his eyes upward, a bitter smirk pulling at his full lips. He leans back against the counter-top and crosses his arms, keeping his gaze to the plastered wall that serves as Daryl’s backdrop.

“Maybe.”

 _Not maybe,_ Daryl’s thoughts supply immediately. _There is no maybe where this is concerned._  But if Daryl were to say that then they’d just keep barking in circles. Paul’s not currently as agreeable as he usually is and Daryl hardly ever was in the first place, but maybe they can just __talk__ , for a minute. Maybe that’ll help settle him, maybe settle himself too. Truthfully, Daryl doesn’t fucking know. He doesn’t really know anything about Paul, at least not the things he thought he knew. He’s only now starting to understand the strange man that had slowly wormed his way into becoming Daryl’s friend, into Daryl’s… _something._ For real.

“You’re pissed.”

Paul huffs and glares at Daryl with so much attitude that Daryl almost wants to laugh. Even though every single current matter is serious, Paul almost looks like a perturbed child. It could maybe, possibly, be a little endearing if Paul clearly wasn’t losing his seemingly-perfect grip on the situation.

“Yeah, well… After what just happened out there, I _might_ be having some trouble keeping my composure.”

Daryl can remember the first time all hell broke lose since the initial outbreak that stole normalcy from their world, back at the Atlanta camp when he and Glenn and Rick and T-Dog came back to find the dead gnawing on the living. It’d had everyone in a panic, people screaming and crying, Andrea holding Amy as she succumbed to death… But Daryl hadn’t been scared; he had no real reason to be. He either died or he didn’t, would keep fighting until it was all over, whatever that might have meant. The only person in the world he’d cared about was off walking around with one less hand on a path that Daryl could never even begin to suss out.

It had only gotten worse after, when everyone got to the farm and Daryl actually started _connecting_  with people. With Carol, with Rick, even with Dale for a while when they both realized they weren’t blind to the problems within their own shitty little bubble, with how _broken_  the group had been. Then, during the winter, after they’d lost and lost and lost. And the prison, _fuck_  the prison, where they’d fooled themselves into thinking they’d be alright.

How many people had they met that wanted to do more harm than good? How many times had they gone to war just to be able live their God-given lives? So Daryl gets it. Daryl _knows._ He knows what it’s like to feel so much that you wish you couldn’t feel anymore.

“Yeah, I get it. You’ve never done somethin’ like that before.”

“No. But _you_  have.” It’s an obvious conclusion to make, Rick had once said as much, but with Paul looking at him now, too-round eyes so pretty and soulful… Daryl feels like Paul knows, too. Like he just _does,_ without explanation, without having to guess. “And it’s probably shitty to say, but I’m glad for that. Because right now? I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Daryl can tell that Paul is finally starting to show the cracks he had only previously suspected might be hidden under his perfect, diplomatic exterior. He’d seen bits of uncertainty before, pieces of a personality that was so much more than the one he allowed most people to see. But this was different. The simmering panic at the base, the fury in the yard, his despondency in this very moment.

Paul’s arms drop from the front of his chest, swinging dejectedly at his side before he reaches out to toy with the a roll of gauze in the container. Daryl pulls a wooden chair around, scraping the legs against the linoleum, and plops his ass onto the thinly cushioned seat. He might as well let Paul clean his wound, no harm to it. And doing something that produces immediate results might help calm both of their fraying nerves.

“Gonna bleed out if you wait any longer,” Daryl rumbles lowly, sights locked onto the slow twitch of Paul’s mouth that his attempt at light humor yields. It’s a start. A good one.

Paul’s fingers drum against the counter before he pushes away from them altogether, pulling at the fingers of his gloves until his bare hands are exposed. He drops them onto the surface beside the sink, pulling his beanie from his head and depositing it on top of them as well. Next comes the coat. He shrugs it from his shoulders, tugging at the sleeves, and then drapes it over the back chair nearest him, pressed up into the corner. And Daryl watches it all intently, feeling as if he’s witnessing Paul shed his skin every time those layers come off. He doesn’t understand it and he can’t describe it; it sounds crazy even to his own bizarre mind. But Paul, with him like _this,_ is real.

The younger man washes his hands and turns, hair falling across his shoulders when he leans to swipe a clean cloth from a drawer. He bunches it over his hand and closes in on Daryl, gently touching it to the wound on his temple. It’s nothing, Daryl knows that -- he’s sure Paul knows it, too -- but he allows it to happen with only a belated wince and uses this opportunity to get another study of Paul’s face up close.

There are speckles of blood across his fair skin, dried, dark, and not belonging to his own self; little smudges of dirt and soot. His eyes are sea-foam in the shadows of the shaded nook they’re hidden within. Daryl’s chest constricts when Paul’s delicate fingers touch the scruff on his chin, gently tilting his head away to get a better view of the bullet scrape on his temple.

“Barely anything. That’s good.”

Daryl hums at Paul assessment, dropping his gaze down to the pale collarbone peeking out from behind the gray shirt that hangs loosely on Paul’s lean frame. He breathes in through his nose and tries to calm his escalating pulse.

The tender flesh around his wound gets dabbed with water, Paul’s hand gently scrubbing at the crusted flakes of blood to reveal the raw skin beneath.

“You’re okay,” Paul reassures; for himself or Daryl, it’s unclear. Then he pulls the rag away, tilting Daryl’s head closer to his face to get a better look.

“Yeah.” He coughs from the back of his throat, hoping to clear it. “Are you?”

“Yeah…” Paul looks down when he says it, scratching his fingers through his thick beard, and then reaches over to thumb at the box of bandages thoughtfully. “You want one?”

“Hey--”

Daryl finds himself wrapping his fingers around Paul’s wrist before a bandage can be pulled from the tattered box. And Paul peers at him when their skin touches, fierce eye to fierce eye, with… with such _veneration._ Daryl wouldn’t know that feeling if he saw it, he thinks he’s seeing it __now__  and he can’t believe it, but he can sure as hell feel it; rolling off his hippie ninja in waves, seeping into Daryl’s soul. A gasoline soaked rag, simply waiting to be set aflame. That’s what he’s become. He swallows the foreign emotions that suddenly make him feel too big for his body.

“It won’t get any easier, whether you been through it or not. You know what to do and how to do it, but that don’t mean shit. What you said to Rick, back at Alexandria… ‘bout needin’ him to do all this? We couldn’t do it without you, either. ‘Cause Gregory was wrong. You ain’t makin’ things worse, y’know? You’re makin’ ‘em better. For all of us.”

Paul’s head tilts down by the time Daryl’s words trail off, his eyes dancing slowly from Daryl’s face all the way to his lap as it processes. The box gets set back onto the table beside them when Daryl let’s his wrist free, his fingertips teeming with warmth and energy that the two had shared.

Paul doesn’t seem to have a response. He just keeps staring downward, somewhere around Daryl’s knees, and lets his head hang enough for his lengthy hair to surround his cheeks and jaw. Daryl isn’t sure how much more he can take of this, of just sitting alone in the dark with a guy that makes all the black and white and gray start to look a little more colorful. A little more blue, a little more green. A little more __clear__  where everything had been hazy. And he might say or do something stupid because of it.

“I gotta…”

He stands, not too slow and not too fast, and gives Paul a moment to step away so he can leave without making the younger man feel like he’s trying to escape. _Thanks,_ his lips part to say, but the words don’t make it out.

Instead of moving away, Paul moves _closer,_ bumping up to Daryl until their torsos collide. Daryl tilts his own head down on instinct, surprised, but still allowing Paul into his space without even a half a thought to tell him otherwise. Paul presses his forehead to Daryl’s brow bone, the tip of his dainty nose smooshing up against Daryl’s scruffy chin. No hands grab him, no arms wrap around his body in an embrace, but just standing together in their own little world with their faces touching and their breaths syncing in an even hum… It’s the most intimate thing Daryl has ever been a part of.

His gaze is lidded as he stares down at Paul, visually tracing the younger man’s eyelids, his thick lashes, the inward pull of his brows and the soft indents between them, the little swoop of his nose, the parting of his lips beneath it, the dark wiry hair lining his chin… So few things in his world are beautiful to Daryl, but Paul is one of them. He’s beautiful. _Paul is beautiful._ And he can see it now. He can see it now because Paul is letting him because he’s letting _himself._

As Paul’s steady breath ghosts against Daryl’s neck, sending a shiver beneath his skin, and Daryl’s own gentle wheezing puffs out across the bridge of Paul’s nose, Daryl thinks that he’s not sure what to do with the information he’s just discovered. So he keeps it to himself. And he keeps Paul to himself; without his hands, with just a tilt of his head farther forward, a hesitant nuzzle of his nose against Paul’s smooth, worried forehead. He keeps it __all__  to himself because it’s the only thing he wants in this moment. And he won’t let anyone take it from him.

The door jiggles open. Paul pulls away first, leaving Daryl standing there with his eyes trained on the ground and his body trying to shake the lazy warmth that had begun to consume it.

When Daryl throws a glance over his shoulder, he sees Wes stepping slowly closer in confusion.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Paul answers. Daryl notes the assured clarity has returned. “I wanted to check on Daryl’s injury without bothering Harlan. It seems like he’s got his hands full.”

“He does. And it might stay that way for a while. I just got back with Rick.”

“He alright?” Daryl grunts, fingers toying with his empty vest pocket.

“He’s fine. He and Michonne were looking for you--”

Daryl nods and walks swiftly towards the door, slipping past Wes with ease. But before he steps through, he peeks up at Paul through the thick of his hanging hair. There’s a glimpse, a lingering desire to resume what had just vanished. It’s short and fast, but Daryl catches it before Paul resumes putting the items back into their designated spot. Daryl’s chest swells with that same desire, an overwhelming force of emotion catching up with him. He bites the inside of his cheek and leaves the trailer to meet Rick in Hilltop’s yard.

* * *

 

The group follows Rick to Alexandria for a moment of respite, eyes and ears held out during their travel. They spoke of a shift change for the guards they’d left at Sanctuary, but Daryl’s offer to take over for Rosita or Sasha or anyone else still standing was quickly shot down by Rick.

“ _ _I need you with me__ ,” he’d told him quietly, ferocious in his own protective ways. Daryl knew that Rick didn’t think of anyone as cannon fodder, but he also knew their leader enough to understand that having Michonne and Daryl at his flank made his hardships go a bit more smoothly. Especially with Maggie and Glenn staying behind to keep Hilltop secure.

Whatever the case, Daryl follows the Alexandrians, the Kingdom dwellers, and the Hilltop colonists back to home base with caution and agitation.

He’d sought out Paul amongst the mass of bodies readying themselves for travel before leaving, biting his nail down to the skin until it hurt. He’d asked about the shitty Corolla they’d driven to check for outposts that had become useless, the Corolla they’d parked at the convenience store where they’d found orange soda and a dead woman’s photo. They’d found cigarettes there, too, and that’s what Daryl had been after.

He’d grabbed a pack from one of the duffel bags and stuffed into his vest pocket, grabbing another to tear open right then and there. Daryl lit one up and was already puffing halfway through by the time Paul asked if he wanted to ride with him. Daryl never thought about saying no. And so he, Paul, Tara, Dante, Eduardo, and the floorboard full of stuffed bags fit themselves into the vehicle and followed the parade headed to Alexandria.

Daryl wasted three more cigarettes by the time they reached the gates.

But everyone files into the little town now, laughing because they don’t feel like crying, latching onto whoever’s bumbling around them even if they can’t recall their names. The mood is a combination of high-strung relief and still-cautious paranoia. Their spirits aren’t broken, however. They still believe in Rick and the plan. But they want to celebrate their first victory, want to relax for at least a few hours of the night. And despite Rick’s rather stern talking to about the subject, the majority don’t listen. The people want to party like it’s the god-damned end of the world. It fucking has been for a long ass time, didn’t anyone get the memo? They sure as hell have now.

Rick and Michonne unite with Carl, Judith, and Gabriel near Rick’s house as Tara is swept away by Francine, Dante, and Tobin. Daryl spots Carol walking with Ezekiel, Morgan, and Shiva, their faces indicative of whatever conversation they’re deep into while the big cat keeps its eye on potential prey. On the opposite end of the safe zone, Aaron weaves his way towards Eric, who stands in wait in front of the house they share. One after the other after the other, crowds disperse and come back together, forming shapes and connections in the limited time-frame they have. Even the ones that don’t belong _here_  seem to have no trouble finding a niche for themselves. But Daryl is left alone again.

He can join Rick and Michonne, he knows that; he knows Rick would take him in a second, would fit him into his little family because he’s part of the bigger one. But he can’t bring himself to take those steps. He can try to follow Tara’s path, though he knows that would be more of a challenge than it’s worth; he hadn’t seen what direction she’d been pulled into and whatever she’s doing with her friends wouldn’t suit him. And despite how nice it would be to sit alone with Carol and share a smoke and the comfort of silent understanding, he doesn’t want to slot himself into her new little trio.

And Paul? Daryl had been so busy keeping track of everyone else that he hadn’t even seen the other man disappearing from his side. Although, being away from him for now might be his best bet. He’s got a lot on his mind and not a lot of gumption in regards to letting Paul try and figure it out.

Daryl’s feet take him towards Aaron’s house, thoughts of easy conversation and awkward but welcoming dinner invitations fueling his decision. At every step since Daryl had met the guy, he’d made sure to be available. Forthcoming. Reaching out because he could sense a loneliness that he recognized as coming from that of a fellow outcast, inviting Daryl along so he could do something with someone without feeling like a intruder, offering him bike parts he’d been collecting in exchange for him taking Eric’s place as his recruiting partner. And maybe… maybe Aaron was the only one in this moment that Daryl felt comfortable enough confronting about things he wanted desperately to not even be thinking of.

The porch steps creak beneath his heavy, reluctant weight. At the top, he stops, knuckles cracking as his thumb presses the tops of his curled fingers hard. _Don’t be a pussy._ After a slew of deep breaths, he uses those same knuckles to rap against the door softly. Aaron answers right away.

His boyish face lights up with a smile when he opens the door and his eyes land on Daryl. His curly hair is wet, face cleansed of any and all blood and dirt. The checkered shirt he’s wearing looks almost identical to the one he’d had on earlier, but Daryl can spot the differences. Aaron had gotten himself cleaned up and was probably ready to spend some alone time with Eric before Daryl had come to screw it up.

“Daryl, hey--”

“Never mind,” he mumbles instantly, stuttering the heel of his boot against the wood beneath him. “Sorry.”

“For what? Daryl--”

Daryl had already begun his descent back down the porch steps, chickening out despite the earlier warning of the gruff voice inside his head. But Aaron takes a step outside, ready to follow Daryl as far as he goes, so Daryl stops once more.

“Are you alright?” Aaron questions, keeping his voice low. His eyes are almost as big as Paul’s, maybe even bigger in this moment, and Daryl is reminded yet again of what he had called on Aaron for.

“M’fine. Didn’t mean to bother you guys. S’just…”

Aaron waits patiently for Daryl to continue his trailed sentence. When it becomes evident that he’s unwilling to, he picks it up softly.

“Do you want to come in? Eric and I were just going to grab something to eat and sit around, probably talk about things a little too bleak for the dinner table. But it’d be really nice if you came in. It’d give us an excuse to cook something and be normal for a moment. And this might be the last good meal we have for a while, so…”

Daryl nods his assent and follows Aaron into the house. He hasn’t been inside it since the dinner, before Negan came and took more than half their shit. A lot of the furniture is missing, leaving the space looking barren, but it doesn’t really _feel_  that way. Not with how Eric smiles up at him, just as bright and welcoming as Aaron’s had been.

“Hi, Daryl,” Eric greets from his spot in the kitchen, leaning back far enough to see him as he and Aaron emerge around the corner.

“Hey. You good?”

“I’m good. I take it we’re having dinner for three?”

Aaron chuckles. “Yeah. So maybe forego the stale sandwiches.”

“Hmm… how about spaghetti then? Daryl seemed to like that last time…”

Daryl’s brows furrow at the amused look that passes between Aaron and Eric, but he doesn’t feel as if he’s being laughed at so he doesn’t bother bringing it up. He shrugs instead and sits himself onto the couch, tuning out the rest of their little conversation. The ocean-side painting hanging on the wall -- something he doesn’t remember from last time -- captures his attention until Aaron sits beside him. Even then, Daryl doesn’t look away. The imitated ocean waves captured in paint are far more interesting than whatever _look_  Aaron is directing his way.

“So…”

Daryl snorts. Aaron waits.

Finally, Daryl breathes: “Can I ask you somethin’? Don’t have to answer, but…”

“Of course, Daryl. Go ahead.”

“Um… When you, uh--” From the painting to his torn up, nubby nails; Daryl stares blankly at his hands. “How’d you know ‘bout, uh…”

Daryl doesn’t really know what exactly it is that he’s trying to ask, but it must be in the ballpark of something Aaron can comprehend because he turns his body towards Daryl and interrupts his fumbling with a soothing tone.

“It’s weird how you grow up with this idea of set standards in society, isn’t it? Things that are deemed normal might not always be the case for everyone. And if it isn’t the case, then there must be something wrong with _you_  because there can’t be any other way. It’s unfair. For me personally, I never liked girls. Then again, I never really liked guys until I was close to graduating out of high school. Maybe that’s because I never let myself or maybe I just didn’t have an interest in the people around me, it doesn’t really matter now. It’s just that the older I got, the more I started realizing that I _did_ have interests and that those interests happened to lie in men. It wasn’t always… easy, but you know the saying. Nothing good ever is. Not at first. The trick is that you have to try and get to know yourself at the same time as everyone else is trying to tell you who to be. But you eventually figure it out -- or that’s the hope, at least -- and when you _do_ , you have to decide that no matter what, you should strive for whatever makes you happy. Because you _deserve_ happiness, just like everyone else.”

Daryl takes a breath during Aaron’s pause, trying to get a grasp on the words that are becoming increasingly more personal. He redirects his line of sight back onto the painting of the artificial ocean-side, feeling as still as the water frozen in its gentle push towards the golden sand. Daryl had never liked the idea of the beach, had never even been to one and probably never would, and he’s unsettled by it even now. The solitude… It doesn’t feel as easy as it had for the majority of his life.

“There’s always been something to be afraid of, right? Fear has existed as long as humanity has. It shrinks the brain, remember? But I’d rather save _my_  fear for the dead trying to rip us apart than for someone being upset by who I am. Every time I look at Eric, I’m reminded of what living _really_  means. The __good__  people you meet, the connections you make, the life you can sustain with those you trust and those who trust you back. There’s still a lot worth loving in this world, you know that’s what I believe. But I’m not the only one. Look at Glenn and Maggie. Rick and Michonne. And not to be so bold, but me and Eric… We’ve made it more than just work. We know things -- _bad_  things -- can happen. But we can’t let that stop us. Tara and Denise didn’t.”

Daryl looks up at the mention of the two women. What happened to Denise is still as fresh in his mind as what happened to Abraham, as what happened to Beth, as what happened to everyone that was taken so unfairly. With each loss, Daryl has grown more wary, more withdrawn. Angry. Hopeless. But everyone around him has lost just as much or even more and they’ve continued on, __moved__ on, to the best of their ability. Hopelessness doesn’t have to get the best of Daryl.

“Do you think Tara regrets loving Denise just because she’s gone now?” Aaron questions solemnly. “I don’t. Because that’s the one thing we should _never_ regret.”

Aaron’s wide eyes stray from Daryl’s face, trailing a path towards the kitchen they can see into from their spot on the couch. They land on Eric, observing the way his body shifts as he breaks the meat up into a pan on the stove. And Daryl can see that Aaron is smiling as he watches ho boyfriend, the love of his life. In a world that’s cruel enough to steal one of them away in the blink of an eye, Aaron still smiles at Eric’s back with so much love and admiration that Daryl doesn’t know where he could even store it all.

That smile reminds Daryl of Paul. So different in detail, but equal in sincerity. A knowing smirk flashes behind his eyelids when they droop down, those deep eyes that glisten with mischief and compassion. And the way it had felt when Paul had kissed him on the balcony, what a change of perception could do; he’d been so ashamed then, so confused and embarrassed, and while he still was very much _confused,_ the negative reaction he’d had feels almost like a distant dream rather than a recent memory. Another nightmare he didn’t want to relive.

The back of Daryl’s throat feels as if it’s beginning to close when Aaron’s gaze returns to his own.

“You’re asking me _how did I know,_ right? I think that means you already do. And if you ever let one thing be easy, Daryl… let it be that.”

He doesn’t grunt or give a smart-ass retort. He just tries to envision how he should go about taking this advice. If he even should…

Yeah, he should.

“He need any help?” Daryl asks after a time, nodding towards Eric.

“Probably. We shouldn’t make him do all the work.” Standing, Aaron wipes his hands against the front of his jeans. Daryl follows him up. “Do you think you could make some garlic bread? Eric would love that.”

* * *

 

It’s pitch black, the earliest hours of the morning, when Rick calls a meeting. He rouses everyone; those who’d been sleeping, those who’d been on watch, those who’d made it back to Sanctuary, even those who’d been too incapable of reeling their senses in after the day they’d had. And they meet in the church like they had countless times before.

Rick can hardly turn around at the front altar, the people barely taking the seats of shuffling to the side, when Rosita stomps forward. Her voice is rough with unveiled panic.

“Eugene still isn’t back. Not even Bruce. They were supposed to be back by now!”

“I know,” Rick says, voice hushed. “ _ _I know__ , but we--”

_“Hijo de puta…”_

__“__ Listen, Rosita--”

“He’s out there for _us!”_ she stresses, hands on her hips, mouth pulled into a shaky frown even as she speaks. “We should be out there for him.”

“You’re right. And we will be. Take some one with you,” Rick tells her. “A couple, we can spare. See what happened, but then you come back. We need you here _ _now__. We’ll have to deal with the rest after.”

“I’ll go,” Daryl can hear Tara offer from beside Paul. “I’ll help find him.”

He’d been inching his way closer during the display, crossbow at his back and an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. When Paul feels his eyes on him, he meets the gaze head on. Unwavering. Daryl can’t tell if Paul is willing him to volunteer, too; to get him out of the crosshairs that are about the settle upon Alexandria.

“And I’ll go, too.”

It’s Tobin this time, unusually confident in the new-found abilities the training had afforded him. Unlike Paul, Carol doesn’t return the gaze he sets upon her.

“Hurry,” Rick says with a nod, accepting the arrangement. “We don’t have a lot of time--”

“We might have none.”

Daryl spins on the spot he reaches between Carol and Paul just as Ezekiel’s regal voice booms through the church, with Shiva at his heel. Rick’s head cocks at his words; his nervous tick. Like Paul pulling at his gloves or toying with his bare fingers, like Daryl chewing on his nails. All three of them are sharing their frayed edges in this moment. So Ezekiel continues, striding forward in long, hurried steps.

“They have found a way out. They’re breaking through the defenses as we speak. I imagine they are already on their way.”

“Come on,” Rosita insists, already moving towards the doors of the church once more. Tara follows her in a hustle, Tobin taking up the rear.

“Be careful,” Carol calls out.

Daryl turns away from Tobin looking back.

Rick begins to speak to the people, all of them gathered and intent. But no sooner than the doors closing behind the trio and the first words leaving their leader’s mouth are they rocked with a shattering explosion from beyond their safe haven. There are gasps and yells, looks of panic and realization, and then movement.

Daryl is one of the first to the doors, his boot kicking them the rest of the way open as he gets his crossbow at the ready. He meets Rosita, Tara, and Tobin in the middle of the way, attempting to stand guard for them as they scramble back to their feet. The sight at the entrance of their safe-zone is an obvious one, but it still sends a terrible chill down his spine.

The gate’s been blown, the smoke receding to reveal Negan on top of one of the pantheon of trucks behind him, their rocket launcher raised to his shoulder while the still-damaged Lucille is bent to the metal platform. The Saviors behind him, whether on foot or in their vehicles, have their weapons at the ready. But no one fires.

“Knock, knock!” Negan bellows into the vast space between them. “Daddy’s home! And he is fucking _pissed_  as _shit,_ let me tell you.”

Daryl feels a hand at his back as he stands, as still as a statue but as tightly wound as a spring. He doesn’t need to see to know it’s Paul, not trying to stop of comfort, but just trying to _ground_ him, ready him for what’s about to come even though he himself might be just as shaken.

From the corner of his eye, Daryl sees Rick pull back the hammer on his revolver as he aims it straight in the direction of Negan’s head.

 _“But…”_ the fucker continues, swaying himself backward and then forward with that cocky, shit-eating grin in place. “What happened back there is somethin’ I don’t care to repeat. So I sat there thinking, as long and hard as my dick, that maybe some type of treaty is in order. And as a show of _my_ good faith, I came all the way out to your lovely little town -- with all my boys, I might add, when they should be back home burning the fuckton of people you just murdered, _again_  -- to bring you a little present. Someone you might be missin’…”

They end of his words are sung like a song, prompting Simon to pull a stumbling body out of one of the vehicles. _Eugene._ Daryl can tell by the khakis he’d rolled up to simulate shorts. His hands are tied behind his back and a bag is placed over his head, shielding him from the sight of his loved ones and his would-be torturers.

Rosita takes a careful step forward, wanting to run for him but thinking better of it. Paul’s hand slides down his back and eventually falls from it altogether when Daryl takes equally careful steps to back her up.

“Go on, now,” Simon urges Eugene, snickering while he hauls him inside the walls of Alexandria and then gives him a great shove onward.

Eugene wobbles, nearly falling to his knees, but somehow manages to keep upright as his leg bends at an awkward angle.

“Eugene?” It’s only a whisper from Rosita’s lips at first, his name and nothing more. Louder and louder as she repeats it and runs forward faster, never lowering her gun from its raised position. “Eugene!”

Daryl follows her in a rush, arrow ready to fire anyone who tries to interfere, whether it’ll do anything or not. Sasha and Tara meet him at his sides, whoever else shuffling behind them. But they all come to a halt when Rosita does, all on edge as the suspicious return of Eugene continues without any dirty tricks.

“Eugene?”

She lets one hand off the gun to reach for her friend, gripping his shoulder to keep him still. And then she pulls the bag off his head.

Her scream is gut-wrenching. Daryl has never heard it from her before. Not for Abraham, probably not for Spencer. But for Eugene…

It’s not him anymore.

His eyes are like glass, bloodshot and with no true focus, and the skin on his face is only just starting to show signs of the body’s life after death. He’d been turned just recently,the flesh of his neck torn open deliberately. Daryl’s lip quivers as Rosita’s cry rings through his ears.

She falls the dirt, dropping her gun as her hands prop her up, her foot kicking out on instinct to knock the shell of Eugene away when he growls and jerks towards her with a snapping jaw and mindless hands trying to free themselves to grab at its prey.

Daryl’s arrow shoots from his bow, spinning through the air until it embeds itself through Eugene’s socket, ending his horrible second existence. He shuts his eyes as the body falls atop Rosita, unable to fully wrangle the rush of grief hitting him like the jolt that van falling off the bridge gave him, only ten times worse.

He’s vaguely aware of his people startling into motion, vaguely aware of the hand gripping the back of his vest within its fist, vaguely aware of Rick screaming out even as he’s drowned out by Negan’s laughter.

“Aw _ _,_ hell!”_ he wheezes out from atop the truck. “Who am I kiddin’? Let the slaughter begin!”

He sees Sasha shove Eugene’s body off of Sasha, spraying bullets to keep the rushing attackers at bay as she helps lift Rosita back to her feet. But then he’s reaching behind himself with one arm, trying to usher as many people to cover as he can. It’s Tara, it’s Aaron, it’s Gabriel, it’s Paul, it’s Francine, it’s Tobin--

“Duck,” Paul instructs, just like that first time. He shoves Daryl down with enough force to knock the air out of him when he lands, a bullet flying through the space where the two had been standing.

He tries to turn to see who got hit in his place, but everyone he’d been herding away is already feet away, firing into the bodies coming at them or attempting to get their bearings as fast as possible. Daryl tries for the latter, too.

Paul rolls off him, hopping into a clumsy rush forward that he manages to salvage when he kicks a Savior square in the chest, stabbing the other in the neck as the woman raises her machine gun towards Daryl. He crawls to the right, gravel sticking to his palms and knee through the tear in his jeans, dragging his bow along with him. He keeps an eye on Paul, watches him grab a lifeless body to use as a shield as he continues to fire out, stepping to keep pace with Daryl until he can pull himself upright.

Daryl readies an arrow and fires, whizzing a shot past Paul’s head. It hits its mark dead on. Then he lunges, wrapping his arm around Paul’s neck to spin him in the direction of the closest house diagonal to them.

He spots it then, Rick running to Carl, gun blazing until bullets turn to clicks and he’s left screaming for his son to turn back, to stop running deeper into the fray to get to Negan. He can’t leave it, he has to help his brother.

 _“Go,”_ he barks at Paul, shoving him onward and hoping that the little shit actually listens to him. “Go!”

He cuts across the way, ducking and staying low, moving as fast as he can in a half-crouch. Bullets sail, ripping through chests and heads and legs of the allies around him. And he shoots his own, dropping Saviors like flies.

Rick is still shouting and shooting, racing after Carl senselessly. He grabs at the man and makes him follow, ducking them both behind one of the cars a Savior had floored through the remnants of the gate, getting shot in the temple through the open window only after running over a few of the Kingdomers.

“Carl--”

“Rick!” Daryl growls. “Get the fuck down!”

“He’s goin’ after Negan! He thinks he can--”

“Nah.” Daryl pops his head up, firing another arrow, and stays long enough to be able to catch a glimpse of Michonne slicing her way to the rogue teenager. It strikes him heavily when he sees the head of a Savior detach from their body, that progress is being made. They need to keep going. “Michonne got ‘im. I saw.”

Rick nods shakily. He takes a moment to breathe, to compose himself, and Daryl can __see__ the shift in him, the panic ebbing away as he hears and trusts Daryl’s words.

“Someone needs to get to the infirmary, get the bottles and rags we put--”

His words are cut off by a quaking boom not far by, the explosive wave shattering the glass of the car windows behind them. Daryl falls forward, reaching out to grab Rick as Rick reaches out to grab Daryl.

Grenades. Or maybe more rockets. Daryl can’t tell and he doesn’t want to stick around to find out. Pulling themselves up, he and Rick haul ass to the infirmary for a chance to fight fire with fire by making the molotovs they’d set up for. Looking in all directions to be safe is a chance for Daryl to get a better view or the horror and chaos taking hold.

Carol follows Ezekiel, shooting while he stabs, Morgan hanging back with his staff as the tiger bounds towards its next target. Sasha darts out of a garage, holding weapons they’d been hoarding, handing them over to Rosita, Tara, Aaron, and Eric. Francine, Dante, Tobin, and a half a dozen of Ezekiel’s men try their hand at getting to higher ground with only mild success. Carl and Michonne have disappeared; Daryl only hopes it’s to make sure Gabriel had headed for Judith the minute Negan called for slaughter.

A scream from only a few feet away cuts into his hyper-focus, making him stop in his tracks. It’s Olivia being bitten into by a Savior-turned-walker, unable to get away from the suffering. Daryl starts to leave when Rick calls his name, but her blood-curdling shouts draw him back.

“Daryl! _ _”__

“Meet you there!”

Rick doesn’t listen. He won’t leave Daryl, either.

He raises his gun and shoots the walker, about to pull the trigger a second time to put Olivia out of her misery. It doesn’t happen.

His name is torn from Rick’s lips, one hand gesturing desperately for Daryl to follow while the other points to the grenade sailing through the air, ready to touchdown next to Daryl and blow him to chunks. He tries to turn, trips over the walker he’d just down, and falls to one knee as he twists to catch his landing. Everything except for his heartbeat feels as if it’s in slow motion; the grenade arcing farther and farther downward, Rick trying to pull him to his feet, Bruce’s body getting thrown backwards after a bullet marks straight through his forehead.

He can see it in his mind’s eye, flashing before him. He and Rick locking eyes, trying to escape but being too slow to escape the blast radius once it lands between them. He can see it, so real and vivid, so frightening-- Daryl has never been afraid to die, but he is now. Never seeing Maggie and Glenn’s baby, never hugging Carol again, never getting to tell Paul that they’re both fucking idiots and maybe there’s something to that, that maybe there’s something to _them._ Taking Rick with him, from Carl and Michonne and Judith--

It doesn’t happen. It doesn’t because Paul is there __now__ , jumping through the air with an outstretched hand and catching the __live fucking grenade__  within his palm and fingers.

 _ _No__ , Daryl thinks he tries to spit out, but it doesn’t get past a rudimentary noise. But Daryl must be dreaming, he must be high on shrooms or dead, because Paul catches the grenade and then he throws it right back, knocking into Daryl as he and Rick get only a handful of feet away from where the explosion would have happened. Instead, it happens as it soars through the air in the opposite direction, rocking the Saviors still pushing at the entrance, knocking Negan off his pedestal.

And then, to top it all off, the hippie ninja prick bends down and slides the blade of his knife through Olivia’s temple, silencing her whimpering with gentle hands, the whole reason Daryl had even gotten himself into that potentially dangerous situation in the first place.

He regains his footing when Paul straightens up. He pushes at Rick as Paul pushes at him, and they move in a row towards the infirmary. Rick busts inside, but Daryl doesn’t follow straight away, takes the moment as an opportunity to drag Paul around the corner of the house and crowd him against the side of it. He fires an arrow at a roamer that tries to follow.

“That escalated quickly,” Paul tries to quip. Daryl shoves him harder against the wood.

“You crazy _asshole,”_ he hisses, voice so deep with emotion that it cracks between syllables.

“You froze, Daryl! You froze and I couldn’t let you--”

Daryl is shaking and he’s sure that Paul is shaking too, and he can’t bring himself to hear any of the words Paul wants to say. He can’t bring himself to __say__  any of the words Paul might want to hear. So instead, Daryl grabs Paul by the collar of his coat and smashes their mouths together in something that could resemble a kiss; scruff and beard scratching, teeth clanking, words muffling and then dying into nothing but a shuddering breath that they both suddenly share. It hurts and he’s scared, but he’s letting himself _feel._ And Daryl hopes that despite the fact that it’s nothing like the way Paul had kissed him before, that he understands what this is and __why__.

He pulls back too soon, embarrassed and terrified, feeling as if he might still explode from the inside. But Paul is looking at him with naked vulnerability, with shock and awe, like Daryl pissed out a rainbow just for him. And well, shit, wouldn’t he if he could? It’s all downhill now. It doesn’t matter what he’d do for Paul because he’d fucking do it all.

Daryl’s fingers curl around Paul’s jaw a little too tightly. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into it, as if instinctual.

“Watch yourself,” he grunts. It’s too soft. It’s not soft enough. It’s--

“You, too,” Paul whispers. “I’ll kick your ass if you don’t.”

“Yeah. We’ll see.”

“We will. I might even kick your ass just because.”

“Shut up. Prick.”

The backdrop of booms and bangs and putt-putt-putt’s never ceases, but they still don’t look away from each other. They have a few more seconds. Daryl hopes they have a whole lot more.

“I think you should make me,” Paul whispers. "I mean, I really--"

Daryl does.

He presses his mouth to Paul’s; plush, dry lips against thin, chapped ones. It’s almost the same as before, still rough and unpracticed but maybe not as hard or fleeting. He lingers long enough to give Paul a chance to part his lips, long enough for Daryl to mimic him, to feel the tenderness start to sink in and melt his beat-up shell down to a puddle. Fucking pathetic, how much more he _wants._

But then he’s gone again, out of Paul’s security and back into the wild. He and Rick have their own trail to blaze, straight to Negan.

*******

More grenades. Thrown by Dwight, this time, in no particular direction. He tosses them about, running with his own squadron of men to avoid the oncoming blasts. Daryl can see that none of his people are hit by the explosions, although many of the houses fair a lot worse, but Daryl can breathe a little easier that turn-coat Dwight isn’t turning his newest coat back around on them. On more than one occasion the two lock eyes. He always fires at Daryl long after Daryl’s already disappeared. If one of Daryl’s arrows manages to stick Dwight in the ass, well… the casualties of war.

Daryl converges with Rick, Carl, and Michonne; the four of them boxing in together, eyes on all sides and angles. Their little cocktails catch flame and as they smash around their targets, blocking paths and burning flesh of those unlucky enough to elude escape. They run, dodge, and toss, ending in formation after each turn, inching their way closer and closer to the guarded infirmary. Gabriel’s held up in Denise’s old place, keeping Judith safe, and Carl’s about to join him at Rick’s behest. As soon as the kid steps over the threshold, Daryl darts in a new direction.

He works through biters and Saviors alike. Blade, bow, and fists; whatever objects he can gather from around. Whatever he can think of to get them bucked off faster, running Negan off into recuperation so Daryl’s people can do the same. They’d known this was coming. It had just happened too fast. And now they’re stuck trying to find that upper hand.

Carol stabs with her knuckled knife, backing up to Daryl when she spots him. His bow hisses as it fires into a a crawling corpse headed their way, his boot crunching down on the concave-head to assist him in yanking the perfectly good arrow back out. A boom and a roar from their left takes firm hold of their attention.

The smoke around them has gotten so thick that it’s hard for Daryl to see. And the noise impairs his finely tuned hearing. He can make out shapes if he squints, can hear soft sounds of familiar voices if he blocks out the loudest clamor, but it still feels like he’s walking around both blind and deaf.

It seems like a miracle that his gaze is trained enough to make out Paul just up ahead, his silhouette black within the gray, but still unmistakable. He walks slowly, cautiously, with purpose; knife in one hand, the palm and forearm of his other stretched for a block. His knees bend, boots springing him from the ground, that outstretched palm knocking away another projected grenade. His hair and coat swish behind him as he jerks into a turn, rushing in the opposite direction, disappearing into the deeper depths of the choking clouds of carnage. Like some sort of holy ghost.

Carol’s tittering voice calls his name, jump-starting his instinctive movements. They race to backtrack when they see Dwight leading a group through the smog, but they can’t help stopping when they see Paul pop up behind them, fully utilizing his daggers and his drop-kicking abilities. And Dwight doesn’t slack, either. Although far less skilled, he doesn’t hesitate to take out the men and women he’d just been leading… leading to their deaths. Daryl glances at Carol at the same moment she glances at him, and it only takes them a second to understand that they should assist the two in front of them.

Daryl knocks a few decaying skulls around with his crossbow, doubling it as a blunt melee weapon, while Carol aims her pistol with her knuckle-grip knife as backup. The cluster of Savior’s is dispatched easily by the four of them, the element of surprise aiding their efforts. Before Dwight can pull the trigger on the final one, Daryl flings his knife like a dart, watching is whiz past the non-scarred side of Dwight’s face to slice right through a gray, peeling forehead. He whips his head around to look at Daryl, careful not to glare too much. They take a breath.

“After all this…” he trails, “Will you ask me those questions again?”

Daryl snorts. He’s not going to say a damn thing about it. Not right now. He turns to Paul instead, keeping Dwight in his peripheral. Before he can ask the younger man what they should focus on next, a horrified scream tears through the noise.

_”Eric!”_

It’s Aaron, staggering across the way, shooting with one hand and trying to hold Eric up with the other. He downs two of the five Saviors advancing on them, falling to his back as he becomes overwhelmed, still crying out as the gun hits the pavement and his hands shakily try to put pressure against the wound to Eric’s side. Daryl can see blood spreading through the shirt, soaking into the cotton far too fast.

He sets an arrow the moment Paul sprints into action, throwing his knife the way Daryl had done, only faster and with more finesse. It digs into the back of a head, dropping a body, and Daryl follows him into the mess with a hit of his own. Dwight pulls up the rear, but Daryl doesn’t focus on him. As soon as he drops another with his bow, he rushes to meet Paul at Aaron and Eric’s side.

“No, please…” Aaron is whimpering, face ghostly pale and pinched.

Paul pulls a bandanna from his neck, handing it to Daryl to press over the wound. He pushes Aaron’s hands away, replacing them with his own. Paul and Dwight then try to lift him as best then can, propping Eric’s torso up against Daryl’s bent knee to get a better position. He’s still breathing, he’s still breathing… and his eyes are blinking rapidly, fighting back pain or tears or the sight of Aaron reaching for him, unable to do anything to help.

Aaron is frozen on the ground; deer in the headlights, prey in the sights.

“Get up,” Daryl tries, grunting as he does his best to wrangle Eric into a position that Paul and Dwight can hold without too much jostling as they attempt to carry him to Denise’s old house. “You gotta move--”

“Dwight,” Paul interrupts sharply. He jerks his head forward, signaling for their temporary ally to get rip of the stray biters stumbling their way.

“You--”

“I got it!” Daryl barks. “Go on!”

He buckles trying to accept more of the weight too quickly, watching Paul’s face as he steps back to hold the legs. Eric’s silence has turned to wheezing gasps.

“Aaron,” Paul hisses, _willing_  for Aaron to look him in the eye. Even in his frazzled state, the man on the ground tries to regain himself enough to listen. “He’s still breathing, but he won’t be for long if you don’t help us get him to Carl and Gabriel. We have to do this together. Forget about everything else. Eric _needs_  youright now.”

Dwight returns just in time to haul Aaron back onto his feet, having left a trail of even deader dead bodies in his wake. He steps up beside Daryl, reaching for his lover, gently taking him from Daryl’s grip. Dwight takes Paul’s place holding the legs, leaving him free to protect the five of them as Daryl follows along with his hands trying to lessen the blood seeping from the wound. He doesn’t listen to whatever Aaron is babbling, couldn’t make it out even if he tried, and he definitely doesn’t. But he hopes that Eric _does_  hear him, that he can understand and know that everything will be okay, that he’ll make it through this.

Paul cuts a path for them, the door to Denise’s old place flinging open, allowing Carl to rush back out into the fray.

“Can you help?” Paul asks, breathless as he rushes up to Carl, pushing him back inside as Daryl, Dwight, and Aaron follow without delay.

“I-- I can try, but I don’t know what to do!”

“I need to find Alex--”

“Rosita, too,” Daryl grunts, feeling the strain even as two others help him prop Eric onto a cot.

“I can do that--”

“Paul--”

But the younger man is gone before Daryl can say anything more, disappearing with a slam of the door. Daryl doesn’t have time to stare through the curtains, trying to spot him through the smoke. And more importantly _ _, Eric__  doesn’t have the time.

“I can… I can help,” he hears Aaron offer weakly, lips leaving Eric’s pale forward. His eyes tear away, too, and his feet carry him closer to Daryl as Dwight holds a clean rag to Eric’s side. “I can do this. You need to go out there, help everyone else… It’s-- I hate to say this, but it’s not looking good, Daryl.”

 _I know,_ gets caught in Daryl’s throat, never one to admit defeat. And that’s not what this is, anyway. They’ll get through this, they always do.

_But not everyone._

“Go, please,” Aaron orders this time, turning to shuffle around with the supplies as Dwight tries to talk Eric into holding still.

Regathering his wits, Daryl shoves himself back out into the haze, searching for someone, __anyone,__ on their side. But he can’t make out fucking __shit__ , not with his eyes stinging like this, not with his chest tightening with fear and anguish. His stuttering footsteps start to take him forward, but he doesn’t have long to move before he’s crossing paths with Rick and Michonne.

She’s leading him to where Daryl had just come from, sweaty face set with determination as she holds his weight. Rick’s hands press to his side where blood seeps, a mirror of Eric, and Daryl thinks that if a breath harshly exhaled from his nose could sound like a word then his would most definitely be __no__.

“Rick--!”

There’s a swell of heat engulfing his body, dampening his already sweat-slicked skin, and he falls to the ground in a rush to get away from the blast to his left. He feels Rick topple over him, silent through his pain as Michonne tries to get him back onto his feet as he shakes like a branch in a storm and colors his white cotton shirt with shades of red.

“Holy shit!” he hears someone shriek behind him. It’s a woman’s voice, hoarse and shrill, and when Daryl tilts his head back against the gravel he sees Tara rushing towards them, sweatshirt tied around her waist and bare arms covered in dried blood. Her doe eyes are huge in her moment of shock, and she begins tugging at Daryl and babbling about him getting back up onto his feet, _god dammit,_ Negan’s stomping on their turf!

He sees him then, even as Michonne hisses for him and Tara to follow, to help with Rick, to get themselves to the relative safety of their infirmary. Where Carl, Gabriel, Dwight, Aaron, Eric, and Judith all reside. With Rosita and Paul, if their lucky. Ah, who the hell is Daryl kidding; Paul no doubt told Rosita to head over and then disappeared once more, pulling his ninja Houdini shit on groups of enemies far bigger than what he should be able to take out. But Daryl swallows, his vision swimming, duplicating the swaggering Negan into blurry twos and the prowling Saviors orbiting his body into dozens. Actually, Daryl isn’t sure that there _aren’t_  dozens of Saviors. But he’s certain that he’s beginning to taste bile forming at the back of his throat as the panic begins to ebb into his action-oriented flow.

Are they so outnumbered again that Negan, that fucking dipshit coward hiding behind meat shields and a baseball bat to compensate for the fact that he’s nothing but a spit-shined turd, feels comfortable enough to walk through their grave yard? Swinging his bat like it’s his dick in the breeze, his whistle echoing off the crumbled walls of the flaming houses around them.

“Would you look at all this trash littering my sweet, new suburbia? There’s no slouching with you guys, is there? Just work, work, work. My boys are gonna have a lot to get done tonight… But we can have a little bonfire, can’t we? And whistle while we work. You know the thing about _work_  is, it can be _fun,_ too. So when I’m burnin’ bones, I’ll be roastin’ marshmallows, and everyone left gets to have a special treat, on me. Are you ready for _s’more?”_ Negan cackles, his body ghosting in and out of the puffs of gray, never leaving Daryl’s sight as he stands and stares with pure hatred. “Get it?!” he yells out, gasping for air as he continues to laugh at his twisted joke. “ _ _Some__  more. S _ _’_ more!_ Ah, hell… Where’s Carl, that skull-faced fuck? I bet he’d laugh…”

“Daryl!” Tara shouts into his ear, pulling him away before he can do something like shoot at one of the Saviors and alert them to their otherwise quiet retreat. Negan isn’t actively looking for them, but that can change in an instant. And if Daryl sticks around in the open for any longer, it _will._

He takes her spot next to Rick, he and Michonne acting as crutches as Rick limps onward. He doesn’t speak, simply listens to Michonne whispering hushed words into his hair, her voice full of strength and deliberation. All Daryl can do is clutch at his brother and hope for the best. _Please. Please…_

Tara bursts through the door first, ushering the three in like Carl had done earlier. Everyone except Aaron, Rosita, and Alex look up from the table, too busy tending to Eric to pay any mind, but Gabriel is the first to stride closer.

“Get another cot,” Michonne orders to whoever can move quick enough. Sure enough, Dwight’s onto the action before she can finish speaking.

“Dad?” Carl whispers, holding Judith tighter against his chest. “ _ _Dad--__ ”

“M’okay, Carl… Glad your safe. You and Judith…”

“Lay back,” Michonne whispers. “Let Tara help you, alright? Don’t act like you don’t need it. Let __us__  help you.”

“Need you out there,” Rick murmurs, hissing as he twists. “You an’ Daryl. Need you out there… take ‘im down, take Negan…”

“Shh. Don’t worry about it…”

“’Chonne… You an’ Carl an’ Judith. Love you.” Daryl spots the tear rolling down Michonne’s cheek as Rick reaches his shaky, red-stained hand to Daryl. “You too, Daryl…”

“Hey, brother,” Daryl grunts, dropping down to eye level. He resolutely does not look at Carl’s shocked, tear-streaked face. “Don’t say that shit. You’re gonna be just _fine._ You better be.”

“Or else?”

“Yeah, or else.”

“Go,” Rick says in a rush of breath, a hiss escaping his teeth as Tara steps up to his side. “Carl--”

“I’m staying,” the teen insists before his father can say a word to the contrary. “Right here, Dad. I’m staying.”

“Good, good…”

Rick closes his eyes when Michonne strokes short, sweaty curls from his forehead. His hand drops from Daryl’s forearm, moving to plop his fist upon his chest as Tara gets to work the best she can.

“Let’s go,” Michonne tells him lowly.

She tears her gaze away from Rick to focus on Carl as she kisses his head, then to Judith as she does the same to her delicate forward. Daryl shares a nod at the young boy and then exits the house, gun drawn as Michonne stalks behind him with her katana at the ready.

They’re greeted with shouting the moment they leave the porch, bodies tensing as they rush towards the noise even despite the knowledge that it could be more Saviors ready to mow the rest of their people down. And where the fuck did Paul run off to? Probably towards the noise, just like them. All a bunch of fucking idiots.

Hands are on him as he starts to run again, causing him to turn and lash out, but the nimble body blocks his blow and pushes into him, trying to steady Daryl’s erratic form. It’s __Paul__ , staring up at him from over the bandanna, squinted rather than wide for once.

 _“Shit,_ you fuckin’…” Daryl shakes his head, pushing Paul’s hands off of him in favor of dragging him forward, following after Michonne even as the distance between them grows in feet. A strange cracking noise rises above the hollering. Daryl eyes Paul, pointing towards the gate. “You set off more of them firecrackers?”

“No. That’s definitely not me this time.”

And it most certainly isn’t.

In fact, it’s Maggie, Glenn, and Carol leading a new charge from behind, machine guns blazing and their stolen rocket launcher perched upon Carol’s shoulder. They march side-by-side, leading a group of their own, survivors who had originally elected to stay at Hilltop and more bodies covered in odd gear, a signature of the Kingdom.

 _“Sum’a bitch,”_  Daryl bites out. He’s not sure what else there is to say. The picture getting closer and closer speaks for itself.

Paul laughs breathlessly, a little too high-pitched, a sound that desperately wants to be relaxed but can’t given their increasingly dire situation. But maybe now things are looking up, stretching to even out. Fucking _Maggie _…__  Daryl wants to laugh, too.

“What the fuck!” he hears Negan shout somewhere from within the community, hidden by smoke and Savior. “Haul your asses out!”

But the man never comes forward, never passes to slip out the gate. Daryl figures he hopped a wall somewhere, probably had his men make a pyramid for him to step all over, very man for himself only _after_  Negan is set up for safety.

Maggie’s mouth twists into a snarl as she fires at the back of fleeing enemies. And Glenn rushes forward, too; creating a clearer path towards their destination, no doubt doing what he can to keep Maggie and their baby safe, pushing his reservations to the side to do what he can for everyone else. Daryl definitely does not miss Carol’s knife driving into skull after skull after skull of the undead circling around them.

Daryl is the first to propel himself into action this time, running at full speed towards where Michonne begins to slice and dice. He doesn’t have to hear Paul’s boots smacking against pavement to know he’s following at his heel.

They’re back at it again with ease that’s still unpracticed, despite how often they’ve done this in such a short amount of time. Daryl stalks his prey, popping up and slamming them down, using bodies as shields and his surroundings as weapons while Paul dances around him. Flipping, kicking, punching, slicing, stomping. They share these moves in distinctly different ways, getting results as equally as effective as the other. They do this and together, with all the others surrounding them, fighting for their lives and the lives of their families, the first real dent is made. Daryl can’t deny the satisfaction of how noticeable it is, either.

The ones they don’t take out choose to retreat like Negan had ordered, scampering away with their tails between their legs, screeching through the woods like banshees. It won’t be long until the flesh is torn from their bones in their fit of panic.

“Maggie!”

Sasha calls for the woman stepping over bodies, rushing from Glenn’s side to meet her near the gate. They latch onto each other in a tight embrace, voices cracking as they laugh so as to push back the tears. The adrenaline is beginning to make Daryl’s insides churn like a tidal wave, he can only imagine what it’s doing to everyone else.

“What the hell are you doing?” he can hear Sasha inquire. She’s full of awe and relief and Maggie can’t help grinning at her friend as they clutch each other’s hands.

“I knew somethin’ was wrong. I knew it. I couldn’t leave it alone.”

“We couldn’t. Together, remember? Like always,” Glenn adds quietly, stepping closer to Maggie and smiling softly when Sasha pulls him into a hug.

Carol, who had been lingering behind, sifting through the abandoned Savior vehicles, sets her path on course to Daryl. She doesn’t waste time wrapping her arms around him, perhaps because Daryl doesn’t allow it to be wasted, and they find themselves hugging in the midst of the clearing fog.

“Where’s tiger boy?” he rumbles into her ear, squinting down at her relaxed features as she stares at him knowingly.

“Combing the woods,” she replies.

Her knife gets placed back into its sheath, deliberately so as she watches Paul stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Daryl. “He’ll be around. Where’s Rick?”

Her attention swivels back over to Daryl as he struggles to answer.

“Got hurt. So did Eric. Got some people tryin’ to help. You wanna--”

“Yes,” Carol agrees. She’d taken a shining to the medical side of things even before Hershel’s teachings at the prison. With her, Tara, and Rosita overseeing the injured, Daryl knows things could only keep looking up.

“Doctor Carson?” Glenn calls out, twisting to look towards the group still lingering behind, looting the bodies. Daryl spots the Doc up front, a backpack resting on both of his shoulders.

“Lead the way.”

Carol brushes Daryl’s arm as she passes, heading off towards their mostly-unharmed infirmary at a swift pace, Harlan’s steps hurried to keep up. Michonne follows after her, leading a couple injured on either side of her. A few more follow after, but Daryl stays put for now, looking to Maggie as she comes closer to hug Daryl and then Paul. The little ninja doesn’t let her go as easily as Daryl had, but she seems content to share his affection.

“Where’s Gregory?” Paul questions, yanking the bandanna to rest around his neck instead of his face.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Had to convince people he was wrong, that comin’ here meant fighting for freedom and how that’s somethin’ we all should be apart of.”

“You their leader now?” Daryl pipes up. All eyes stray to him before landing on Maggie, awaiting her answer.

With Glenn’s hand slipping into hers, she sighs.

“Someone’s gotta be,” she declares. “I guess it’s me.”

Paul smiles, relieved at Maggie taking his community under her wing. Probably proud of her, too. The strength of that woman, only bolstered by Glenn and everyone around her. Despite it all, Daryl can feel his lips twitching into a tired smile, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the comments. They've been really sweet and encouraging, and it's really the best motivation there is. Seeing that you enjoy this story makes me enjoy writing it even more. So kudos to all of you for taking the time to offer me your thoughts.
> 
> I saw that apparently Jesus catches a grenade and throws it back in the comics?? Like what a freaking badass. It needed to happen here and so it did. God, I love him so much.
> 
> I think this is a longer chapter than usual, but I couldn't find a better place to split it up, so just have the whole thing. There are a few bits of comic dialogue in here as well, if I remember correctly. Not too much tho. Also, I gave Eugene the "Holly" death from the comics (let's not even talk about who might get a remix of it on the show... -_-) I'm so sorry, Eugene. I'm so sorry. I love him, I swear! But also, some Daryl and Aaron bro-time (i love their dynamic and want more of it), as well as a second (and kind of third) kiss for Daryl and Paul! Exactly 3 chapters after the balcony! It's weird how it happened that way. And like I said before, the last chapter and this one are sort of more action-oriented. There will be more of that to come, but I hope i'm not like bombarding you guys with it. I want to put character moments within the action, too. It's just that this is a war and so things have to happen. 
> 
> Sorry for mistakes. Hope you guys enjoy. I look forward to seeing what you think! <3
> 
> (and i don't know if i've said it on here before, but here's my [tumblr](http://just-whelmed.tumblr.com))


	7. Yellow Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm looking for a place to start  
> and everything feels so different now  
> Just grab a hold of my hand  
> I will lead you through this wonderland  
> Water up to my knees  
> The sharks are swimming in the sea  
> Just follow my yellow light  
> and ignore all those big warning signs"
> 
> (yellow light | of monsters and men)

Alexandria wasn’t looking too hot.

Sitting on the steps of the infirmary, Daryl looks out onto their grounds. Their community. And he’s met with the horrid reality of war. Much like the farm after it had been overrun, like the prison after it had been trampled. Corpses litter the concrete roads, blood staining dirt and grass, smoke trailing through the darkening skies as houses continue to burn on around them. Sasha leads the effort to control the flames, dowsing them until nothing but ash remains. But the damage is done. People are dead, belongings burnt to a crisp, and the only thing to show for it is the absence of the Saviors.

Still, the safe-zone is standing, the walls have held, and the members walk their paths with purpose. Dragging bodies to be buried and burned, putting down the rotting and groaning vessels as they crawl in an aimless attempt to find a meal, aiding Sasha and Maggie in snuffing out the fires. Sure, the damage is done, but the people left? They remain strong. Holding each other up, pressing onward.

_Kingdoms aren’t destroyed when the castles get burnt to the ground. It’s when the people left standing give up or surrender that you lose yourself to what’s out there, trying to take over. We can rebuild, if we have to, or move somewhere else. It’ll work if we’re together._

Just like Paul had said. And standing together the way they have been, they won’t lose. Not if they’re together. And speaking of…

Daryl twists, turning on his spot atop the step, peering into the window. He can’t see much through the crooked blinds -- beyond Aaron pacing, that is -- but he can make out silhouettes gathered around, shadows shifting as actions are completed. Nothing seems too chaotic in there and when Daryl had checked just ten minutes prior, both Rick and Eric had been stable. Neither of them had been conscious, however. And from the looks of the sluggish movements beyond the glass, they still aren’t.

A slow breath passes through Daryl’s chapped lips, his body throbbing with aches and pains. The cool air had made his heated skin clammy, his stringy hair swept up with the occasional gusts of wind that rustles the leaves from their positions on the baring branches. He looks to the scars on his pale, shaking hands. His thick fingers clenching tight, torn nails pressing into his palms without any pain.

He doesn’t see Paul coming towards him, but he knows it’s the younger man’s body that eases itself carefully down beside him onto the same step he occupies. Shoulders and thighs press against each other, elbows knocking as Paul digs around in the pocket of the trench coat draped over his lap. Daryl looks up when a blurred object enters his peripheral, meeting Paul’s focused gaze with one of his own.

He reaches out to take the full cigarette pack, rubbing at the cellophane. Paul’s voice sounds scratchy when he whispers:

“Welcome to the next world, Angel.”

Daryl blinks. And then he blinks again, the nickname seeping into his muscles, relaxing him instead of rising his hackles. The words settle into his brain, right alongside Abraham’s, creating a strange formation of something complete. _You ever think about it? Settling down? Welcome to the next world, Angel._

Wordlessly, Daryl holds his hand out to Paul, dirt speckled palm facing the sky with bloody fingers spread wide. Cool, soft skin meets his own, nimble fingers sliding into the slots that seem tailor-made for his little ninja.

_I ain’t no angel. Furthest thing from it. But… I’m startin’ to think maybe you are._

He doesn’t challenge Paul; not here, not now, though he still might some day, when neither of them are choking on soot and tears. Paul’s thumb brushes at the side of Daryl’s wrist, over visible blue veins as he squeezes Paul’s hand.

“You too, asshole,” he murmurs at last, dragging his own thumb across Paul’s knuckle as he slips his hand away.

He shoves the cigarette pack into the pocket of his vest, pushing himself into a weary stand. Something pops. He’s not sure what, probably doesn’t care to know. He’s getting too old for this shit, that’s for damn sure.

He contemplates heading inside to check on Rick and Eric again, but thinks better of it. Sitting idly isn’t something he can do right now, waiting around for news, be it good or bad. He has to _do_  something, make himself useful. So instead of climbing up to the porch, he moves the rest of the way down.

“Gonna go help ‘em.” He nods his head to the right, referring to Glenn and Tara hauling bodies in each direction rather than Sasha and Maggie and their little fire brigade. He’d always been better at starting fires than putting them out. “You gonnna stick ‘round for a while? Come get me if somethin’ changes?”

“I will,” Paul confirms. He stands, too, taller than Daryl from where he stands atop the step. He pulls something else from his coat pocket now that it’s slung over his arm. It’s a bandanna, Daryl sees. Faded black. And he hands it over to Daryl with a simple, “Take this.”

Daryl ties the object around his neck, forming a knot at his nape, and then pulls it to cover his nose and mouth while he nods his thanks. He allows himself an extra moment of just _looking_  at the younger man, to know without a doubt that he’s alright. If anything is wrong with him, it isn’t physical, although Daryl swears he can see a shift in the brightness of his eyes. He doesn’t like that, not at all, and maybe if they have time… Hell, he’d make an even bigger ass out of himself if it meant Paul might __laugh__. And when did that start becoming so important? Everything’s all screwy.

He gives Paul one last nod before moving the rest of the way into the street, bending to grab at crooked legs to begin the slow drag towards the stack piling up near the south wall.

The door shuts behind Paul. Daryl’s left with bodies.

* * *

 

He’s slick with sweat again and probably red in the face by the time Carol comes out of the house, strolling over with her arms crossed, completely ignoring the flames licking at flesh and bone and cloth. She looks at him with one eye squinted, the corner of her mouth quirked up by way of grimace. Daryl stares into the flickering light, taking a breather. She doesn’t let the silence linger for long.

“Tell me about Hilltop.”

“What about it? ‘Nother place, just like this one.” Daryl shrugs, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Got some good people, got some shitty ones, but they’ve done a’right by us.”

“What about Jesus?”

Narrowing his eyes, Daryl shrugs again.

“What about him?”

“What’s he like?”

“You got eyes and ears,” he grumbles, turning away from her under the pretense of checking on Glenn and Tara as they continue digging into the earth. “And if you didn’t spend so much time on your lil vacation with Tiger Boy, you’d know, too.”

“You don’t need to be jealous, Pookie. You liked me first.”

When Daryl snorts this time, it’s filled with a little more humor. He remembers when she’d said something like that to him at the prison, when people started to try and cozy up because he could bring in good meat. _Just so you know, I liked you first._ He has no qualms about making it known to her the distrust he has for Ezekiel, King of Whatever.

“Don’t trust your boy.” And it is _your boy_  that he makes crystal from, letting her know that he can smell what’s going on there. It’s _something,_ whether they make it obvious or not. Had the tiger gotten to her? Daryl wasn’t even sure Carol was capable of being impressed these days.

She raises a thin brow, her silver hair sticking up at all angles from the wind. Her denim over-shirt is clean and a nice fill-in for those ugly flower sweaters.

“Well, maybe I don’t trust _your_  boy.”

“What?”

“He calls himself Jesus and dresses like he’s about to rob an art gallery.”

“Hey, Ezekiel talks like he’s from some damn cartoon. Least Paul fits in with the rest of us weirdos.”

“So it’s Paul?”

Carol presents him with one of those innocent smiles, one he can see right through even with his eyes closed. He won’t take the bait.

“Yeah. _Paul.”_

“And, what, you don’t call him Jesus because you’ve had a moment of religious clarity?”

“I don’t call ‘im Jesus ‘cause that ain’t his damn name,” Daryl snaps, biting at her bark.

She’s used to it, doesn’t mind. Never really did because she could always see through Daryl’s bullshit, right from the start. He supposes it’d be kind of hard to ignore the rowdy redneck who would move hell and high water to look for a lost little girl.

_“Daryl,”_ she practically coos. “You call a baby Lil Asskicker. I really don’t think you care much for names.”

“Don’t matter. He’s good. Helped get me to Hilltop in one piece. You seen him fight? He’s a goddamn ninja.”

Carol hums at Daryl’s praise, giving him a sideways glance he doesn’t care to translate.

“Whatever _Paul_  is doing for you, Ezekiel is doing for me. They must be a lot alike in that way, if _we_  put up with them.”

“Kinda think it’s the other way ‘round.”

Carol turns to face him fully, stepping into Daryl’s space. Her innocent orbs shine with true kindness, her lips pressed tight as the corners lift with sincerity.

“Maybe it’s both ways,” she tells him, hand coming up to pat his cheek. “I’m thinking I’ll stay at the Kingdom after this whole thing settles down. It’s good to get away, sometimes… Like you staying at Hilltop.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Daryl replies, but even he knows that’s not much of the truth.

It would have been dangerous if he left, going back to Alexandria had been discouraged, but he’d inevitably stayed on his own accord. Day after day, week after week. And he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that maybe staying beyond this whole shit-storm was something to consider. Maybe he already had, somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, cogs turning against cobwebs the longer the idea of _settling in_  at Hilltop curled inside his consciousness like stubborn wisps of smoke.

“But maybe,” he admits reluctantly, hiking his shoulders up to his ears. “Might could stick ‘round Hilltop for a while more, keep an eye on Paul. Jesus. Whatever.”

“Or for Jesus to keep an eye on _you,”_ she teases.

The noise Daryl emits sounds almost like a snuffle. Everything feels muggy. Carol laughs.

_“Stop.”_

“He’s smart, seems like he knows what he’s doing. And strong. Reminds me a lot of you, actually.”

“We ain’t nothin’ alike.”

Carol smirks. “You keep telling yourself that,” she murmurs, throwing his own words back into his face.

He knew she was right, of course. The fact that _she_ knew without even really knowing Paul was more than a little annoying, but he was on their side, fighting for their people just as well as his own. Something like that wouldn’t get past her. _You’re every bit as good as them,_ she’d told him once at a time where he was too stubborn to listen but too vulnerable not to believe. Did it make more or less sense to think like that now? To think of himself as _good _,__ like Rick and Glenn and Paul…

“Daryl!” Paul calls from between cupped hands from the porch. “Rick’s awake!”

That’s all the calling he needs to get up and out of this conversation.

 

Rick’s sitting up when Daryl barrels into the room, gaze darting around the room as his hands clutch and Carl and Michonne, Judith being held by Gabriel only feet away. Alex and Carson are still focused on Eric as intensely as Aaron is, but nothing is said and Daryl figures they’re waiting for him to wake up, too. That he _will_ wake up.

The room is crowded, with Rosita, Tara, and Morgan occupying the corners, watching but not interfering, speaking quietly amongst themselves. Carol joins them, but Daryl notices that Dwight is gone, probably fled when he saw the other Saviors retreating. They still needed an insider, still needed to play both ends until he hopefully landed somewhere in the middle.

“He left?” Rick slurs, pulling his son’s hand to rest against his chest. The lines of Carl’s face are steely, but the tremors can’t be missed. “Just like that?”

“Maggie showed up,” Michonne tells him in a whisper, raking her fingers through his sweat-dampened curls. “He didn’t like the odds. Too fair.”

“He’ll be back.” Daryl’s quiet, too. He shifts his gaze from Rick to Paul when he feels the younger man press in closer. “You know he will. He ain’t done. Ain’t gonna be ‘til one a you is dead.”

“I know…”

“We can’t stay here,” Tara pipes up from her corner, leaving Rosita to join Daryl and Paul closer to Rick’s side. “Can you even see out that window? It’s fucked out there. _We’re_  fucked out there.”

“I’d like to take Eric to Hilltop,” Aaron says finally, voice clear and strong, much unlike the way he’d been speaking earlier. He looks up to the group across from him, never letting his fingers stray from slack face. “He can be better treated there. Doctor Carson says they have more supplies and more space. When they head back, I’m going with them.”

“Me, too,” Tara murmurs, her eyebrows drawn together earnestly.

Meeting Carol’s eye from across the room, Daryl exhales softly and shuffles closer to Rick.

“I’m headin’ back, too,” he tells his brother. “So should you. ‘Chonne, Carl, Judy… All ya’ll need time away.”

“It might be a tight fit,” Jesus adds, bare hands clasped tightly in front of his stomach, “but yeah, you’re all welcome at Hilltop. We need to regroup Rest. This isn’t over yet… I’ll talk to Maggie, see how she left the place, but we should head out soon.”

“Yeah, I’ll think about it…” Daryl knows that’s basically a _yes_  coming from Rick’s throat, he’s just not in the state of mind to make certainties. “Right now, let’s just deal what we’ve got in front of us.”

Daryl finds himself nodding at the sentiment, though his mind can’t help zooming a little too far forward. What will happen after they make it back to Hilltop? How can any of them rest knowing Negan’s just around the corner, ready for the final pounce? They’d driven him out because of their forces mounting on both sides, but that didn’t change the fact that they’d lost a lot. Homes at Alexandria, ammo, _people._ They’d for sure put a dent into the Saviors, but that didn’t amount to much if what was left couldn’t see it through.

_End it._

A soft rap of knuckles against the door meets their ears before it creaks open, Glenn’s facing popping through the wide crack.

“Are you guys okay?” he asks, all breathless sincerity as dirt streaks his cheek, dark hair hanging limply across his forehead.

“We’re doing alright,” Paul answers calmly, doing his best even know to assuage any fears. “How’s it out there? Does anyone need help?”

“Yeah, we got a few people starting to complain about injuries… Maybe the shock is wearing off.”

Paul frowns, brushing his thumb against his own palm as he turns to face the group clustered over by Eric.

“Alex--”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the large man offers before Paul can even finish. He doesn’t move right away, visibly hesitating, but then he sighs and pushes away from the cot. “We’ll need to head back to Hilltop soon, though. I doubt there’s much we can do for anyone with the supplies we’ve got left here.”

“I’ll talk to Ezekiel,” Carol offers, crossing her arms once more as several pairs of eyes flicker over to her spot against the wall. “We’re pretty well stocked.”

“Speaking of…” Glenn trails, jerking his head to the quiet grounds of Alexandria. “He’s back now. He’s talking to Maggie by the gates.

Rick starts to move at Glenn’s words, despite the tuttering of Michonne and Carl. Daryl presses a hand to his shoulder, adding enough pressure to keep his weakened body down.

“I’ll see him,” Paul offers, holding out his hand in the usual placating fashion.

Stepping out of the shadowy corner, Morgan clutches his staff tightly, meeting Paul’s gaze steadily.

“I’m right behind you,” he states.

Paul has no reason to dispute him. Morgan had gotten close to Ezekiel during their time away, just as Carol had. If anything, the two of them were better acquainted with the so-called King than even Paul was. So the Hippie Ninja nods his head and steps towards the door, his fingertips brushing the small of Daryl’s back through leather and cloth as he passes, reassuring and reaffirming Daryl without any words needed. Daryl isn’t sure if anyone notices this touch -- it’s so brief and fleeting that Daryl figures he might even be imagining it -- and honestly, he’s not sure he even cares. Carol already thinks there’s something going on between the two of them and _maybe_  she’s not entirely wrong. Daryl had _kissed_ Paul out there, on the outskirts of their battlefield, and he’d held his damn hand on the porch. Like some kind of lovesick teenager. Like fucking Carl with Enid, and those puppy-dog looks they shared when they thought no one was looking. Is that what Daryl’s been reduced to in the presence of a man who calls himself Jesus?

He wills the heat creeping up his neck to stay the hell away from his face, focusing back on Rick even as he feels his vest pull slightly away from his sweaty back, cool air seeping up under the fabric until Paul let’s it fall back into place.

Even with all the people in the room, made up of faces he knows and cares for, it’s when Paul’s presence disappears that he feels suddenly lost.

* * *

 

It doesn’t take them long to pack up their meager supplies and belongings for the stay at Hilltop. Daryl isn’t sure why they’re doing this exactly, he’d wanted to go and proposed Rick come with him, but having __everyone__  relocate to another community just gives Negan another place to destroy. Still, Daryl isn’t one for leaving anyone behind. He just hopes the walls are as strong as the ones at Alexandria. More importantly, he hopes his people are stronger than it _all._

Rick climbs into the passenger side of a dented truck after making sure Carl has Judith strapped safely in the back. Daryl takes a bag from Michonne, holding it with his own duffel at his side as she slides into the driver’s seat, the door slamming shut behind her. Throwing the packs into the bed, Daryl steps his boot up onto the rear bumper and swings his other leg over the tailgate, dropping down to settle atop the bumpy surface. He situates the crossbow into his lap, though he only has one arrow at the ready, and kicks the bags with the muddied toe of his shoe to give himself more space.

His gaze isn’t settled on anything in particular, can’t be with how heavy his eyelids have become, previous adrenaline rush sucking the life and energy out of him. But as they start to pull around, jostling as the tires roll over indents in the dirt and brush, Daryl spots Paul over by his shitty corolla, pulling his own duffel bags out of the backseat. There’s a flash of an orange soda bottle as Paul tries to adjust the rest of the junk, perhaps looking for something, and Daryl can’t just let it go.

His whistle pierces through the air, stopping the slowly puttering truck from moving too far down the mud path with a slow whine. Paul looks up at the sound, a brow rising high as his eyes dart around, settling on the source of the noise itself. He looks to Daryl with his head cocked, his gloved hands tucking loose hair behind his ear.

“Got room for one more!” Daryl calls out, cupping his hands around his mouth to carry his voice farther out. “C’mon!”

Paul rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes narrowing in a short debate with himself. Then he twists at the waist to lift the bags he’d been reaching for, slamming his car door by way of a kick. With a bottle of orange soda in hand, Paul jogs towards the back of the truck, smiling tiredly when he reaches the bumper.

Daryl leans forward with a grunt, taking the bottle from Paul’s hands, shoving at the bags the younger man throws in to join his own. He’s forced to watch the stupid ninja vault over the tailgate, his weight shaking the truck as he lands and spins into a graceful sitting position. Daryl can’t help roll his eyes when Paul’s elbow jabs into his arm.

“Gonna break your ankle, showin’ off like that. And I ain’t even gonna feel sorry.”

“Sure you won’t,” Paul replies, his tired smile stretching into something a little more smug.

The scrunch of his nose is back and Daryl looks away from that sweet expression before his stomach can begin to twist itself into knots, choosing to stare down at the crinkled label stuck to the opened bottle instead.

“You’d have to nurse me back to health,” Paul continues, smile growing the longer Daryl refuses to look at him. He snorts, however, and slaps his hand against the truck to prompt Michonne to get a move on.

“Wouldn’t.”

“Daryl, you’d be right there next to Alex and Harlan.”

“You’re a cocky lil shit,” Daryl grumbles, knocking his exposed knee against Paul’s pocket. “Never gonna play doctor for you.”

“That’s okay. There are plenty of other positions for you to assume.”

Daryl doesn’t know what _that_  means, though with the way Paul says it, oozing trouble, he could take a guess. Ignoring the lure of the game, Daryl cracks the lid, earning a pitiful hiss as the bottle had already been open and sipped from during their earlier trip. He takes a gulp of the liquid, the heat and flatness of it souring his tongue, but it doesn’t bother Daryl. He’s had far worse than hot soda. He takes another two gulps before he offers the bottle to Paul, who takes it from him carefully.

There’s no bandanna hanging around his throat this time, which is why Daryl’s eyes are drawn to his throat as it bobs with his swallow. Soft skin with taut lines, muscles constricting, shifting as he turns his head. The thick beard covering his narrow chin and jaw is a contrast, the hair light and dark, a stand-out, but not as much as those eyes… The eyes that are watching him as blatantly as Daryl had been.

“Daryl…” Paul begins, drawing out his name in a whisper, like it’s sacred and important. Like _he_ is.

His lips part, chest rising high with an inhale, and his eyes -- which somehow seem far too green in the afternoon light -- can’t find a place to land. But whatever he was about to say never makes it to Daryl’s ears. Paul exhales his breath and smiles. It doesn’t even reach the laugh-lines around his eyes.

“I have more soda,” he says at last. The toe of his own boots taps one of his bags. “You can give it to Tara. For Denise.”

Daryl nods, just a quirk jerk of his head, and averts his eyes to his hands as they rest atop his bow. He caresses the worn weapon, his and Paul’s bodies jostling into each other on a turn. Paul doesn’t move out of that space when the road has settled into an even stretch. Daryl doesn’t make him.

* * *

 

He finishes his cigarette as they head around the side of Hilltop’s walls, parking their vehicles in the brush. Then the people and the horses head straight through the large opening gates, the emptiness of the grounds filling right back up to the way it had been before this whole thing, exceeding its normal capacity immediately. Ezekiel and many of his lackeys hadn’t even arrived yet, had gone back to Kingdom to sort some things out first. That expansion Paul had first talked about was going to need to happen sooner or later, even if this was a temporary situation. They’d need more stables, some little wooden cabins, an extension of the walls if they could swing it.

But Daryl shakes off those thoughts for now, knowing that thinking of the future wouldn’t do anything to help with what’s to come. Squinting out at Barrington as the people amble around him, he toys with his last arrow, feeling Paul beside him and taking in the view just as he is.

“Maggie!”

They turn at the warning shout of the name, both breaking into a sprint over towards the trailers where Maggie, Glenn, and Gregory stand. She’s got her gun trained on him, her lip curled in disgusted anger. Glenn’s own gun is out, too, protecting his wife, but his dark eyes look shiny with worry.

“Maggie--” he tries again.

_“No,”_ she snaps. Her gun doesn’t waver. “He sold us out to save his own skin. But he’s still here, benefetin’ from our losses. From _our_ pain.”

“I did it for my people,” Gregory tries again, that same old sorry excuse.

“Shut up!” Maggie spits, boldly stepping closer. The old man reels back. “You’re not fightin’ for anyone, not even for yourself! You’re just hidin’ out and hopin’ we’ll take care of it all, like it’ll just go back to the way things were. It _won’t_. Not with you.”

“Maggie,” Jesus says in that soft, calm way. He holds his hand out over her arm, carefully curling his fingers over her bicep, but he doesn’t try to pull her arm away. “What are we doing, Maggie?”

He asks her as if she doesn’t have her weapon drawn, ready to put an end to the slimeball standing in front of them. And Daryl knows it’s because Paul trusts her the same way Glenn does, the same way Rick and Daryl and Michonne do. He trusts her to do the right thing, whatever the hell that may be. Daryl’s itching to shoot an arrow through Gregory’s stomach, see if he can recover from _that_ , but luckily he isn’t the one in charge. In fact, Gregory isn’t anymore either, as evidence by the fact that everyone around is watching Maggie as if she’s ready to give an order. Gregory’s run as leader has truly ended.

“Find a place for him,” Maggie advises, holstering her weapon after another few seconds of glaring. “We can make a cell, like Morgan did at Alexandria. But until then, put him somewhere he can’t cause trouble. I don’t wanna ask this of anyone, but he’ll need guards.”

“I’ll do it,” Kal offers. The icy glower Paul sends his way makes him lower his gaze.

“No,” he retorts. “You won’t.”

“I will,” Eduardo offers in his place. Brianna steps up, too.

“Good. Thank you both.”

Gregory starts to blather on as he’s pulled roughly by the arms back towards Barrington, going completely ignored. Daryl’s attention is drawn back to Maggie when she sighs.

She adjusts her baseball cap with one hand as Glenn grabs her other, rubbing soothing circles into her skin. Daryl thinks that the bags under her eyes are going to match his own some day soon if she doesn’t start taking it a little easier.

“I wanted to help show everyone around,” she begins, turning to face Paul, “I should do that. But all I can think about right now is taking a shower. I know people are gonna be linin’ up to use the bathrooms in Barrington, so I was thinking Glenn and I could use yours?”

“Of course,” Paul agrees, a small laugh escaping his lips. “Just don’t slip.”

Maggie flashes a toothy grin to them, but Daryl’s focus is on Glenn’s face, the embarrassment so easily read on him. Even now, after everything, when everyone knows that Maggie is going to have his kid, his face still goes beet red at the insinuation of sex. It brings Daryl back to a memory when he’d teased the two of them as they rushed half-naked out of the guard tower. Daryl most definitely doesn’t want to be thinking about this. So he curls his mouth into a little closed-lip half-smile, offering it to Glenn before Maggie pulls him along and they both disappear inside of Paul’s trailer.

“I need to go show the others where they can clean up and rest.” Daryl looks to Paul as he speaks.

The younger man is pulling off his gloves, stuffing them into his coat pocket and then using his bare fingers to press strands of hair behind both ears. They’re small but stick out, protruding just a little more than what might be normal. Certainly more than Daryl’s own ears, with tips that barely peek out from beneath his messy hair. But he’s never noticed this before, never paid much attention. They’re just ears, everybody has them, for fuck’s sake. And yet somehow this seems uniquely Paul.

“But--” Daryl snaps his focus back to Paul’s face, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek. Paul shifts on his feet. “Maybe we can meet after?”

Daryl’s brows furrow slightly, a little confused by the tone of the question. The strange hesitance behind it. He shrugs, readjusting the bow at his back just to give his hands something to do while Paul stares at him with big, curious eyes.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Okay. Give me three hours. I’ll come find you.”

“I’ll be at Earl’s stall, so you know. Got stuff to do.”

Paul nods and shoves even more hair behind his ear, trying to keep it in place with a strangely jerky movement. If Daryl didn’t know any better, he’d say the younger man was nervous. Over what, Daryl definitely doesn’t know.

“Okay,” he repeats. There’s a small smirk as he rolls his eyes up, exhaling amusedly. “Alright. I’ll see you.”

He begins backing away as he says this, only turning to face forward once Daryl gives him a nod of confirmation. Daryl watches him jog to catch up with the groups being led by Sasha, Dante, and other colonists as they attempt to show the newcomers around.

He’s chewing on his finger, standing in the spot Paul had left him in for probably around five minutes, before he spots Tara coming out of a trailer, hair wet and clothes clean. Her stride isn’t purposeful, so Daryl moves to follow.

“Dixon,” she greets, a sleepy smile adorning her mouth just like so many others.

“Wait up--”

Feeling like a damn pack mule, Daryl pulls one of the many bags draped over his shoulders and stretched across his back to the front, taking a look inside to see its contents. He drops it to the grass when it turns out to be his wadded up clothes and grabs another one, taking a moment just to stare at the bottles and cans or orange soda. Looking back up to Tara, who’s been watching him with mild amusement, he hands the whole thing over.

“What’s this?” she questions, though she reaches to take the item from him. When she unzips it fully, revealing what’s inside, she stares unblinkingly. “Why…?”

“Denise... She, uh, asked me to get you some. ‘Fore you left on that run. Never got the chance, but thought you might like it now. See it through for her.”

Tara’s body sways with visible emotion, her confusion morphing into some sort of sad happiness. Still devastated by the loss, but joyful that she continues to live on in little ways. Tara rezips the bag and transfers it onto her own shoulders, closing her eyes as she smiles and drops her head back, the afternoon sun streaming across her face. Without warning, she pulls Daryl into a hug, wrapping him tightly within her arms. He does the same.

* * *

 

Earl doesn’t bother Daryl as he sits in the dirt next to the blacksmith stall, cutting dowel’s he’d gathered from the older man to use as arrow shafts. He listens when Ezekiel arrives, gathering from Maggie -- fresh out of her long shower with Glenn -- that she’s tripled the guards and put them on a strict rotation, keeping a constant eye out for the inevitable attack. She mentioned assigning tasks, too; like having Rosita and Tara help Alex and Harlan in the infirmary after the two women buried Eugene over by Abraham, having Gabriel speak and listen to the worries and complaints of others before they could resort to something dangerously stupid, having Michonne and Carl take stock of their weapons and supplies. There’s a lot to do and a lot of people to get it done, so Daryl keeps at his arrows with routine glances at the gates.

He does this for a long time, slouching against the wooden stall, shirt sticking to his back as the fire from Earl’s own handiwork becomes trapped beneath his vest. He listens to the sounds of scraping of metal on metal, of hushed voices carrying in the breeze. And while Daryl’s mind stays firmly on the task at hand for at least a good hour, his thoughts eventually begin to wander.

Time is ticking closer and closer to his meeting with Paul, which shouldn’t mean anything but yet somehow does. He’d been so weird about it. Fidgety. Not like he wasn’t normally, always grabbing at his own hands or rubbing at his skin or tugging at his hair, but this was different. He seemed almost nervous just asking to meet with Daryl, as if it were something _new._

It occurs to Daryl that maybe wants to talk about the fact that Daryl had kissed him. They’d skirted around the Balcony Incident, with Paul apologizing again, this time indirectly, in case Daryl didn’t want to hear anything more about it. But Paul hadn’t screwed things up, despite Daryl’s initial reactions, and maybe he’d been a damn fool to reveal that to the younger man but he couldn’t stand thinking shit would stay negatively changed between them. So maybe Paul wants to meet so they can _talk._ Daryl groans internally at that idea.

But then again, maybe it’s something else. With his hands slowing on his work, Daryl’s mind tips into overdrive. Why would Paul ask beforehand? Why wouldn’t he just come find Daryl, as per usual? Why would he want Daryl to __know__ , to agree? Paul likes Daryl. He’d kissed him. Did people kiss even when they didn’t like each other? Shit, one nights stands were a thing. Merle had a lot of those with women he never really liked. But Merle never liked _anyone_  unless he thought they were a fine piece of ass. And it was obvious that Paul was into guys, that he was interested in Daryl, who had never really thought about being “into” anyone. But whatever was going in between himself and Paul, something that was past being deniable, changed a little bit of that mindset. Whatever he wanted… Well, now it was just making Daryl nervous.

He drops his tools, replacing them with a rag he wrings his hands around. It’s long been past two hours, the sky darkening high above Hilltop, stars beginning to flicker to life. Earl had turned in already, far too exhausted from all the fighting to keep his minds and hands in action. He’d suggested Daryl get some rest, too, but he’d only grunted noncommittally and kept his head down towards his dowels, rubbing the grain of them. He’s thinking too much into the whole thing, he knows that. And he longs for the days when he didn’t give a crap about dumb shit like this, when he didn’t worry if someone _liked_ him or not. But he supposes it isn’t just about that, it’s also about intentions, and Daryl has always sort of worried about _those._

He plants his palms into the dirt and pushes himself up into a stand, stretching out his back and shoulders before bending to snatch up his not even half-finished project. He lays them out onto Earl’s shelf for safe keeping, nearly dropping them back down to the ground when a breath ghosts over his ear and a gentle voice whispers to him.

“Hard at work?”

Daryl spins around, banging his hip into the wooden counter as bumps rise up over his flesh, scowling at the man who watches him with a cocked head and smirking lips.

_“Shit,”_ he hisses, throwing his hand out at Paul dismissively. “Need you a bell more ‘an them cows.”

Paul hums. His arms cross over his chest, the loose fabric dipping down low with the top buttons undone.

“Were you heading out?”

“Nah…” Daryl digs his heel into the dirt, his own hands leaving the counter to mimic Paul’s action of crossing them over his own chest. “Gettin’ tired of waitin’ ‘round.”

“Lucky for you, I’m here now.” His smirk switches to something a little more pleasant, soft but still with that nervous edge. “We got everyone settled in, for the most part. Maggie and Rick both asked me to tell you they have space in their rooms, but… Well, so do I.”

Daryl steps away from the counter and to the side keeping some distance from Paul’s personal space. He paces a little, shuffling to one side and then the other, Paul’s eyes following his movements like they’re set on some sort of track.

“What, your trailer?”

“Yeah. I-- It’s just me in there tonight. I held off on asking anyone to take it in case you wanted some space away from the happy couples.”

“Like shackin’ up with you’s any better?”

His words don’t come out bitingly. Not that Daryl had intended them to, it’s just another odd thing. Teasing in such, making Paul smile with the obviousness of it. The lack of grimness.

“Careful what you say, Daryl,” is Paul’s playful reply.

And Daryl huffs because yeah, okay, maybe _shacking up_ wasn’t the best terminology to use, especially when this whole thing with Paul had been on his mind more than that fuckface with a baseball bat fetish. When he’s quiet for too long, mentally kicking himself, Paul fills the silence.

“You don’t have to, though. I just thought maybe-- You won’t sleep otherwise, I know that much. And after everything that’s happened, you need to take it easy. While you can.”

Daryl knows Paul has a point. He hadn’t planned on sleeping, really. He probably would have kept his ass in the dirt until the early hours of the morning, nocking his dowels until he could convince someone to let him take over on watch. But he’s already dead on his feet and the prospect of having to be some kind of hangars-on to Rick and Michonne or Glenn and Maggie didn’t settle right with him.

“Go on,” Daryl finally decides on saying, gesturing vaguely outward.

Paul leads the way, with Daryl following not far behind. He keeps his head but his eyes up, focused on Paul’s back and the fresh blue button up he’d apparently changed into in between finishing up the tour and going to meet Daryl.

The walk is short even with their slower strides. They reach the warped little box at the same time and while Paul only halts long enough to pull the door open, Daryl stops completely at the edge of the first step. He’s never been inside Paul’s trailer before, Paul’s _home._ Not for a lack of an invite, of course; Daryl had always turned those down. Mostly because he just didn’t care to try and fill what would most assuredly be an awkward silence on his end, even if the younger man chatted away like they were best friends. But Daryl accepted __this__  time and even though it shouldn’t be a big deal, he can’t help feeling like it is. He’s over-thinking shit again. It’s becoming a habit when his thoughts so often revolve around Paul these days.

“Daryl?”

Paul’s reappeared in the doorway, holding onto the frame as he leans out, one foot crossed over the back of his ankle. His head his tilted, brows knitted in confusion. Daryl absolutely does not want to explain that he’s having some sort of crisis over whether or not he should enter a shitty trailer.

“You gonna invite me in or what?”

His gruff words are a little too harried and a whole lot of nonsense considering Paul had already done so by offering him to stay the night inside. It’s simply an excuse. Thankfully, Paul doesn’t seem interested in trying to poke holes, he just smiles and rolls his eyes.

“Come in, Daryl.”

His boots clunk heavily against the small wooden steps, but it’s not until he steps inside and looks up that he gets his real first impression of the place.

It’s small, that much had been obvious by the outside, but it’s also very cluttered. There’s stuff everywhere; books scattered in several pules all across the flooring, pieces of clothing hanging from hooks on several walls or overflowing from plastic baskets, candles and notebooks set atop shelving, kitchen cookware lining a short counter-top.

There’s a single bed shoved into the corner, covered in blankets and pillows, a set of table and and chairs placed in the short span of the space between the door and the foot of said bed, a faded couch pressed against the adjacent wall. A couple of lamps, a lantern, too many candles. And then a single door, probably leading to a severely cramped bathroom.

It’s a far cry from the richie houses at Alexandria and even more a far cry from Hilltop’s very own Barrington. But it’s clean and it smells nice and it’s exactly the kind of place Daryl would choose over someone else’s attic or garage or dark fucking cell.

“You can close the door,” Paul prompts after far too long, allowing Daryl to take in his surroundings.

There hadn’t been much noise outside. There’s even less inside the trailer with the door firmly shut in place. And the lighting is different, too, bathed mostly in amber aside from the sliver of blueish-white of the night lighting up the window from behind the curtains.

“Here.”

Paul sets a handful of granola bars onto the round table. He rubs his hand down across his mouth and beard before he turns to grab a bottle of water, placing that on the table as well. Daryl doesn’t hesitate to reach for his, his churning stomach giving him not even an instance of hesitation. He rips the wrapping open with his teeth, spits out the piece of foil, and then gobbles down half of the oats in one mouthful. Paul’s still watching him, but it must be almost an absent stare with the way he keeps running his fingers through the hair at the top of his head, erasing the middle parting for brief seconds until the long strands fall back into place with each pass through.

Another scan of the small room as he gulps down the second half of granola reveals a few more details. Like the knives arranged on the second shelf of the little nightstand by the table, the top half holding a smaller stack of books and an unlit camping lantern. The collection of bandannas hooked over the bed, a tourist sign for Barrington hanging above the couch for whatever reason. And, even more bizarre, a lobster bib tacked to the wall beside the window.

“Why you got this here?”

Pulled from his strange reverie, Paul looks from the lace Daryl __had__  been standing to the place he currently is. One shoulder shrugs.

“I like lobster.”

“Enough to hang this shit on your wall?”

“It’s better than nothing.”

“Doubt it.”

“I bet you wish you had some right now.”

Moving from his spot, Daryl heads back to the table to snatch up another bar, eyeing Paul with mouth set in a serious line.

“Nah,” he denies, tearing the foil wrapper with his teeth once more. “Wish I had some squirrel though.”

“You know what? I actually believe that.” Paul laughs quietly, his smooth skin crinkling with sincere amusement.

“Weren’t so bad,” Daryl mumbles before he even swallows down the dry food. “Think you liked it. You just don’t wanna say.”

“I liked going out there with you,” Paul admits, shifting his weight casually, arms crossing his chest. “That’s about it.”

“Uh-huh.”

It had been pretty alright, going out with Paul to catch a couple of dumb squirrels. Maybe a waste of time if he hadn’t been itching so bad to get out into the open. And just like with everything else in this world, the hunt feels like so long ago. Time passes too quickly -- or perhaps it’s just that Daryl understands how precious such a thing really is nowadays. _Time._ It’s the most important thing and they never have enough.

The clock’s still ticking, awaiting to announce Negan’s arrival. Paul had only wanted to meet with Daryl to offer him a place to sleep, so Daryl might as well take him up on that. He should really just--

“What’s with all the books? S’like a damn library in here.”

But Daryl can’t seem to keep his mouth shut, needs to somehow fill the silence since Paul isn’t trying to.

The younger man hums in thought.

“I like to read.”

“No kiddin’.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you. It’s really that simple.”

“Seems more like you’re some kinda hoarder.”

“Well…” Paul drops his arms, letting them swing lazily. He looks up to the ceiling, quirking a brow, and then grins at Daryl. “We all have our vices. Or so I’ve heard. I like to read and you like to chain smoke. Anything else?”

Grabbing the water and uncapping the lid, Daryl takes a moment to think as he drains the bottle until the plastic begins to crunch. He’d never been a saint, that was for hell sure. He smoke, he drank, tried a few of Merle’s special little ounces. He didn’t care too much for that last one, but he still liked a good drink. There was hardly ever a minute that was good enough or safe enough to get drunk now, however.

“Used to like whiskey,” he answers after a beat. Daryl didn’t have a hankering for the stuff like his dad did, but the taste for it had been passed down to him from that old bastard.

Merle had obtained the traits rather than the interests, it seemed. He liked yelling and fucking and fighting, but he didn’t like the taste of pheasant or rock music or any brew or alcohol that was too dark. Opposite from Daryl in almost every way, excluding the fact that they were both hot-headed fuck-ups who shit on people first so they wouldn’t be offended when the favor was returned. All in the Dixon name. But not anymore.

“Merle only ever got tequila, if he was buyin’. Don’t s’pose you got any of that either.”

“Merle?”

The empty bottle caves in noisily under Daryl’s twitching fingers. He knows he doesn’t have to answer the inquiry -- it isn’t even a real question, just a name spoken with interest -- but his blood brother has been nagging at the back of his mind again, kicking away at his insides like he always did when he was hanging around. It feels like years since he’d hacked away at the face that had once belonged to Merle.

“My piece a shit brother. He was a damn asshole. But uh, I miss ‘im. Sometimes. Tried to do us right, ‘fore he turned. _S’why_  he turned. Guess that’s all he ever coulda done, though. Just __try__.” Daryl places the bottle onto the table, ignoring it as the caved-in structure forces it to topple over and roll right off onto the floor. He looks up from the distorted plastic to lock onto Paul’s face. “Don’t know if he’d a liked you. He, uh-- I mean, he’d probly find you funny, but…”

Paul looks at him like he _understands_ , but doesn’t comment on what Daryl is trying to tell him, if he’s trying to tell him anything at all. Daryl doesn’t even know, honestly. He doesn’t want to. Merle is dead and buried, and anything about the life Daryl had led before should be, too. There’s nothing for him in the past. He just hopes there’s something for him in the future.

“Well,” Paul sighs, inching his way over towards the stand by the bed. “I don’t have whiskey or tequila, but I do have something better.”

One of the books gets snatched up by Paul. Moving around the table rather than leaning over it, he stops next to Paul and tilts his head to get a view of what’s supposedly better than getting drunk off your ass. _The Art of War._  Oh, boy.

Daryl grunts, straightening his back and peering down at Paul with his narrow eyes narrowed even further.

“No thanks.”

“You’ve read it before?”

“No. And I don’t wanna.”

“I think you’d like it,” Paul tells him, mouth curled up on one end like Daryl’s refusal is amusing to him. He reaches for Daryl’s arm, turning his wrist to face palm-up, and places the batter book into his curved fingers. “And if you don’t, then it might help put you to sleep. You can take the bed--”

“Couch is fine.”

Paul’s big eyes narrow, too. Copying Daryl. He doesn’t argue the decision, probably because he’s learned by now that Daryl’s stubbornness is as thick and unmovable as a brick wall, when he fully sets his mind to something. And he’s probably also thinking that he shouldn’t push his luck in regards to Daryl sleeping; he can still change his mind and go sit outside the gates to keep his own eye on if anyone is coming or going. It’d be better than trying to quiet the ghosts in his mind long enough to get a couple hours of shut-eye.

So Paul grabs one of the few blankets atop the mattress, handing it and then one of the two pillows to Daryl to take. He closes the short distance in not even a handful of strides, draping the soft, green blanket over one of the seat cushions and then putting the pillow on the opposite end. He deposits the book there, too, as well as the slingshot he hasn’t gotten use of since that little hunting trip. Puling the strap of his crossbow over his head and dropping it down to prop it beneath the window, Daryl finally sits.

His body is so tired, swaying like he’s a chunk of jello somebody can’t stop poking. His bones feel like jello, too, his feet and head and shoulders too weighted to feel relaxed. He’s sore and dirty, two things that have become part of his norm, but it’s too much for him now. His eyes sting when he lids refuse to shut for even a blink.

Paul stays standing by the bed, for his part, toeing off his boots with practiced ease. Then he pulls a band from one of the many pockets of his cargo pants and begins to comb through his hair again, less aimlessly than before. The top-notch from training returns, shades of brown and gold gathered into a loose messy lump, exposing the pale nape of his neck.

“Remember when I asked what you would do if you could do anything in the world?” Paul shifts to look at Daryl, leaning his lower back against the counter, an ankle crossing over the other. “I told you I didn’t know. But I do now.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“I’d go scouting,” Paul reveals, as if it were some big secret he’d never told anyone before. Daryl jerks his head back in disbelief, expression no doubt souring by Paul’s simple words. But the hippie ninja just smiles at him some more, all serene like, and begins to explain. “I’d scavenge. That’s what I did before I met you and Rick, what I was doing when I ran into you both, before all of this shit with the Saviors really blew up. I’d go out for days at a time, wherever I could, gathering everything that seemed useful and anything that might be __made__ useful. I found things, I fixed things, and then I would just… wander around. Just _look_. Because I knew that when I got back to Hilltop, people would be happy. They’d get the things they needed and at the same time, I’d get what I wanted. To be alone out there.”

“You got all these people here,” Daryl rumbles, fingers gripping at the frayed threads of the knee-hole in his jeans. “Shoutin’ for you every damn hour. And instead a tellin’ ‘em to fuck off, you go outside the walls to be alone?”

Briefly, Daryl remembers what Paul had told him about Alex and his own little trips into the wild. _If you asked, he’d probably say it’s the other way around. But when I leave Hilltop, it’s not to run away. Not like him._ That’s what he’d said. But now it’s starting to sound like that was exactly what Paul had been doing. Did he realize that? Or did he lie to Daryl on purpose? Then again, his claims were also starting to sound a lot like Daryl’s habits, and fuck everyone if now suddenly Paul was admitting to having some deep-seeded lone-wolf agenda. Just like Daryl.

Paul lets a whoosh of breath escape him, his chest deflating, bending far enough back to rest his head against the large vent covering the wall, the counter keeping his hips jutted outward. Daryl barely registers the little shake of his head.

“It’s not-- It’s not to get away from them. But it’s… There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. A difference between objectivity and subjectivity. I decided to be a part of a community because I knew I couldn’t make it alone. I know you know that, too. And being here, with the skills that I have, means that I’m important. I can do things for people. I can make things _better.”_ His voice picks up in pitch as he grows agitated, his head lolling back into a straight-forward position so his eyes can gaze intensely into Daryl’s from across the small room. “I can-- I can _help,_ Daryl. I can’t do that if I’m alone. But then there’s a point where you have to start thinking about who you’re willing to get close to and what that means. If you care too much for one person, are you thinking about the needs of the many? Can you still be objective about the choices you make?

“Hilltop is a community. Everyone here matters. All of our lives _matter_. But mortality doesn’t justify the means to an end. With Ethan, stabbing Gregory because he was afraid… I said he deserved what Rick did to him. I said that he was a coward. That was me being objective, thinking of the group, thinking of who else he would have put in danger for fear of what would happen to his brother. And at the time I thought I believed what I said, but now I’m not sure. I’m not sure about _any_  of this. I just keep thinking about how I helped your group attack that outpost, and how that ended up bringing you right into Negan’s crosshairs. We killed them in their __sleep__  because we were afraid of what they might do more than what they had already done. And now we’re fighting and people are dying, and that’s exactly what I tried to stay away from. If you care about people collectively, feeling their loss is different. But if… __when__  you get close to someone -- and you let them in and you hope more than anything that they let you in, too -- then you can’t be objective anymore. You can’t call someone a coward for doing whatever they could to save their family. You can’t stay away for days and then hope that whatever you bring back is good enough to make up for your absence when people actually start caring about you as a person. I can’t. Not…”

Paul shakes his head, tearing his eyes from Daryl to stare at the wall to his left. With the way his throat bobs when he swallows, Daryl can tell that Paul, the usual portrait of Cool and Calm, is hanging on by a thinning thread.

“I think you know I care about you,” he says quietly, voice pitched lower than usual, thick with emotion. “I mean, I care about Maggie and Sasha and Alex and Rick… I’ve always cared about a lot of people, but it’s _different_ now and it’s been different ever since I met you. And I can’t be lonely anymore. I don’t _want_  to be. I-- Um, yeah…” He breathes out a laugh and Daryl, in his thrown state, manages to think that he’s glad it has a little bit of good humor to it even as Paul kneads a thumb into his palm in that absent, nervous way that he does. “So if I could do anything in the world right now, I’d go out scouting. With _you_. And we’d find a really good haul, we’d drive around in my shitty car, we would just __be.__ Out there. Together. Just to see what we could see. That’s what I’d do.”

It’s a shit-ton to take in, that’s for sure. Daryl doesn’t even really know if Paul is still talking or if it’s the echo of his voice, of his emotionally impactful words banging against his chest and skull, that keeps echoing through him. Paul chose to be lonely, to not get close to people; Daryl had done the same. But Daryl had cracked early on, finding place with Carol and Rick, with Michonne and Maggie and Glenn and Beth and Denise and Aaron. He’d found a place with Paul, too; a strange position that kept teetering and teetering in every opposite direction, somehow still circling back to the unknown that was starting to become familiar.

And now Paul was cracking, too. His certainties breaking down because he can’t find it in himself to leave Daryl alone, because he cared about him so much that he didn’t _want_  to be that lone wolf anymore, existing in the world and in the lives of others without scratching your initials into their bones. How fucking _bizarre_ , that the two of them had traveled completely different roads and yet managed to cross over somehow, heading for the same destination. And how bizarre it was that nothing inside of Daryl was nagging at him to switch directions while he still could.

“Sorry for keeping you up.” Paul breaks the silence they’d lapsed into, his voice seeming a little more weary this time around. “You should--”

“Hey-- c’mere.”

The quizzical shift of Paul’s brow mirrors what Daryl’s feeling on the inside as he thinks on Paul’s words, on his own short request rather than responding with some cheesy crap that would just leave him tongue tied. Because that’s the thing, he __knows__  he cares about Paul, too. _I think you know I care about you._  Daryl could say the same, recycle those words in some poetic throwback he’d seen on staticy television too many times for his liking. He could turn this into some kind of damn romance novel, grab Paul’s hand and just say _I like you, too, dummy._ But that’s not Daryl. And it’s not _Paul,_ despite his own rambling, because Paul _knows_  Daryl and he likes him anyway. So he beckons him forward, using few words, grabbing the blanket from the cushion to give Paul a clear spot to take. Then Daryl grabs the book from his side and drops it into Paul’s lap.

“Read it.”

“I have,” Paul replies skeptically. “Probably about a thousand times.”

“Yeah. But not to me.”

And it occurs to Daryl that he’s asking to be read to like a damn child getting ready for bedtime, but he won’t take it back. Besides, Paul’s good at talking and Daryl just wants to hear his voice; the gentle timber of it, the smooth way he rolls over words. He doesn’t want to fall asleep worrying over Negan or who else they might lose when he shows up again. He just wants __this__. For now. For as long as he’s allowed it.

“Alright…”

Paul grabs the book, thumb tracing the cover, flipping through the pages until he finds one he wants to start with. He clears his throat. Daryl catches Paul peeking at him through the corner of his eye before he settles deeper into the cushions and begins to read aloud.

“All warfare is based on deception. Hence when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him. If he is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is superior in strength, evade him.” Paul’s mouth flickers with a smile, his eyes coming up to meet Daryl’s knowingly as he recites: “If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.”

Daryl’s starting to get why Paul likes this. It’s some guide on how to be badass and annoying, two things that describe the little ninja perfectly. He shakes his head and wiggles in his spot, grabbing the pillow to shove behind his head. He stares up at the ceiling as Paul continues to read, that soothing voice blending in with the sound of his own heartbeat and the little crinkle of the pages turning, creating a gentle hum within his mind.

“This is one of my favorites,” he adds in after a while, breaking up the written text to let Daryl know he should pay attention to what’s next. Daryl keeps his eyes closed, but focuses entirely on what Paul is saying. _“Anger may in time change to gladness; vexation may be succeeded by content. But a kingdom that has once been destroyed can never come again into being; nor can the dead ever be brought back to life.”_

The mention of kingdoms reminds Daryl yet again about what Paul ad told him. Something getting destroyed doesn’t mean it’s over because the _people_  are what keep things going, keep life worth living. And even with those people dying and coming back, it really isn’t _them._ They’ll never be again.

It’s like Paul’s philosophy of something, this book. Did he take to it so deeply before or after the world had ended?

“What’s that mean?” Daryl rumbles, mouth barely able to move with how exhausted he is. He understands the words and what they represent, to himself and in general, but he wants to know what Paul thinks and he wants to know why it’s so important to him.

“I don’t know. I guess it helps me recognize what I’m fighting for. We won’t always be angry or upset or just scraping by. There will be a time when things are better. And when that happens, we can’t be blinded to it or blinded by it. We have to remember what we’ve lost when we see all the things we’ve gained. This book says _‘the greatest victory is that which requires no battle.’_  I know that’s not always practical, I do, but it’s something I think about every time I wake up. What I want the foundation of the next world to be.”

“Thought you said we were already there,” Daryl murmurs, rolling his head against the pillow to look at Paul through slitted eyes.

“We are,” Paul tells him, leaning his head against the wall so as to face Daryl at a better angle. “That’s why it’s even more important to keep it growing. The earth never stopped turning. As long as we’re here, it won’t.”

Daryl wants to kiss him again, that’s the first thought to start puttering through his brain when it shows signs of flickering more fully into conscientiousness. It’s impulsive and it’s so out of left field that Daryl isn’t sure if maybe this is all some sort of fever dream. But then his eyes slip closed again, his system finally having had enough, and Paul’s smiling face the last thing he sees before he lets himself fall into the darkness.

* * *

 

It takes a moment for his eyes to uncross when his lids slowly draw upward, pupils burning from the immediate sight of sunlight. He rubs at his sleepy eyes with his fists, the bleariness lingering, and his chest aches with the deepness of his yawn.

Daryl had been out cold for the first time in a while, body stiff and sore from his upright position on the couch. Or more like his slumped position, because it’s only when he forces his eyes to stay open for longer than five seconds that he realizes the room looks crooked. The room being Paul’s trailer, of course, and the crookedness coming from the fact that he’d somehow collapsed against Paul during the night.

He forces some of his bones to pop when he leans away from the smaller, leaner, very warm body at his side, his gaze going dark again when his mouth widens with another silent yawn.

His movements hadn’t jostled Paul into wakefulness, luckily. He sits slouched at the other end of the lumpy couch as well, head lolled against the wall, the hair at the top of his head threatening to fully escape down to his shoulders. Daryl sits himself up a little more properly, arching his back in a slow stretch, and glances at Paul’s face for a better study.

The younger man’s skin looks smooth like this, dimples and laugh-lines and those worried forehead creases nowhere to be found during slumber. The sunlight gives him a golden hue, his cheeks and dainty nose looking a little shiny, oily in the early morning or possibly sweaty from the heat of Daryl laying half atop him all night. The strands of hair that have already fallen free look a little frizzy, stringy like Daryl’s usually is, and it reminds Daryl of how clean the other man is all the time. And it’s not as if Paul looks unnatural on a normal occurrence; with his beard trimmed and his hair combed through, his skin scrubbed clean, his clothes crisp and free of dirt. But Daryl thinks that, like _this_  -- face slackened, red lips parted and emitting even breaths, hair a mess of directions, shirt rumpled and nearly hanging off one shoulder -- is what’s real.

Maybe because Daryl can stare at him this way and not have to worry about explaining __why__ , trying to cover up his reasons with grunted insults when he would rather just burn this image into a memory he doesn’t have to force himself to lock away. He can imagine Paul blinking awake, his own eyes needing a moment to recover before they settle on Daryl. Would he smile at him, wide and toothy? Would his shoulders shake with that silent laugh? Would he mind waking up next to Daryl on a couch inside his trailer, just the two of them staring at each other like a couple of idiots who can’t think of anything better to do?

It’s a little too much for Daryl, his own thoughts stifling him, making his heart rate pick up its paces. He can’t wait for a _fantasy._ He needs to get up, go finish his arrows. Maybe find something to eat to refuel some of that drained energy. Because Negan and the Saviors would be coming to Hilltop soon, there could be no doubt about that, and all they could do was wait and pray they’d be ready to finally end it.

The blanket he’d been given had gone untouched during the night, but Daryl grabs it now, shaking it out before carefully draping it across Paul’s sleep-lax body. It settles atop his lap and stomach, cascading down his sprawled legs. And with one last sweep of the younger man, one last reassurance of his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm, Daryl turns away from the couch and treads quietly to the door in the corner.

It hides a very small bathroom, indeed. Nothing like the one he’d cleaned up at in Barrington. There’s a toilet, though, and a basin with a circular mirror hanging over it. The shower is at the back wall, a square that was apparently big enough to hold two people,knowledge that he’d acquired thanks to Glenn and Maggie. The glass sliding door is slightly frosted, offering barely any privacy, but at least it’s something. And Daryl isn’t going to use it now anyway.

He closes the door behind himself, not clicking it into the frame, and steps up to take a piss. It’s colder in here, the second window in the whole trailer being a rectangular one near the ceiling that’s pushed up and out to allow airflow. He doesn’t bother trying to close it. The cooler air is refreshing.

Daryl washes his hands and then his face, rubbing the bags around his eyes that still look like swelling and trying to rinse the awful taste of morning away. It doesn’t work out very well and there isn’t much else to be done outside getting his whole body wet, so he takes a breath and creeps back into the main space of the trailer.

Paul hasn’t even stirred, it seems, so Daryl allows himself too tread carefully over to the round table where the rest of the granola bars lay. He grabs up another two and then strides to the door, taking one last look inside.

The sunlight is dull high above, the vast skies opening the day with a gray and cloudy overlay. Daryl knows it’s only a matter of time before raindrops start pelting down against them. He swears he can taste an oncoming storm.

For now, however, things seem relatively peaceful. Which means that more than nature’s fury is headed their way. If it’s not one thing…

The farther away from the trailers he walks, the more he focuses on Barrington and the woman leaning on the porch out in front of the big house. It’s Tara, spinning the tip of her knife against the steps, gaze unfocused and unaware as she sits, lost in thought. Daryl takes the spot beside her, dropping down and keeping quiet, his own gaze settling on the gates of Hilltop in the distance. He only looks to her when he senses she’s looking at him, too.

“Where have _you_  been?” she asks with a cocked brow, setting her knife into her lap.

“Out back,” Daryl mutters with a shrug.

A slow grin spreads over Tara’s mouth.

“Have you accepted Jesus into your heart, Daryl?” she teases, voice coy and light. Daryl jerks his head away to face forward, attempting to ignore her. She doesn’t give up. “Or maybe you’ve accepted him _somewhere else?”_

The sound Daryl huffs is probably one of outrage, but he’d like to pretend it never came from his mouth. He starts to stand, to leave before she can catch sight of his warming face, but she grabs his wrist and carefully pulls him back down beside her.

“Sorry,” she says with a chuckle, meaning she isn’t. At all. “I couldn’t resist. But I bet you couldn’t, either.”

“Don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” Daryl finally growls. “Whatever you think’s happenin’ _ain’t.”_

“Okay, okay. Sorry,” she repeats. It sounds sincere this time. Daryl deflates a little when Tara sighs. “I told him about Denise, before… You know? When I told her I loved her. And I was kind of freaking out because I told her to try and cover something else up. But I meant it, I really did. And you know what Jesus said? __S_ o you know what you’re fighting for._ Like it was just that easy. All of it.” Tara’s laugh isn’t quite humorless. Daryl isn’t sure of that’s progress or not. “The fucked up part is… I think it could have been.”

She turns her head to look at Daryl, dark eyes shining, mouth curled into a pained smile. But there’s something behind it. Hope or acceptance or both.

“She loved you,” Daryl finds himself saying, too quiet and too soft, too flippant for the moment. But he doesn’t know how else to tell her that some of Denise’s final words were about her.

“She was gonna tell me when I got back.”

“Yeah, but she told me. Out there. Me and Rosita. Said she didn’t tell you ‘cause she was afraid. But she loved you.”

Daryl pretends not to notice the tear that spills down Tara’s cheek, looking away as she grins and wipes it away. He stares out at the gates again, watching Kal and Eduardo take their posts, and puts a tentative hand on her knee for an awkward pat.

“Thanks” Her voice isn’t quiet like he’d been expecting. It’s strong, just like her. “For this. And for the soda. And just… _thank you_. Come here.”

Daryl wraps an arm around her as she wraps both of hers around his torso, squeezing her to his side as she props her chin atop his shoulder. He can feel her pat his back, both of them awkward but still certain of this affection, certain of each other. And when she pulls out of the embrace, she offers him her fist. With a smile tugging at his lips, he bumps it with his own.

She’s the first to stand from her spot, tugging at her flannel as she takes a few steps forward. She pauses, though, and turns to look down at Daryl after a few long seconds of quiet have passed.

“I still know what I’m fighting for,” she tells him.

And, yeah. Daryl knows, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the quieter chapters, sort of like the ones in the beginning. I actually ended up liking quite a few bits that happened in this. 
> 
> (I've been struggling with just writing in general lately, which means I haven't gotten too much finished for the chapters that I still need to write. I have about 2 more chapters after this one already complete, so I'm just giving a heads up that the "updates every Saturday" thing might not last fully. It might change to like every other Saturday or something, depending on when I'm able to finish what's left. But don't worry, updates will never be too far away and this fic will get finished. It's like my baby. Just wanted to let you guys know in advance since all of your comments have been so inspiring and encouraging and just mean so much to me. They really make a difference.)
> 
> Anyway, sorry for mistakes. I tried to look it over a couple of times but I always miss stuff. 
> 
> I hope you like this chapter. Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think! <3


	8. Different Pulses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I know that in your heart  
> there is an answer to a question  
> which I'm not as yet aware that I have asked  
> If that tree had not have drunk my tears  
> I would have bled and cried for all the years  
> that I alone have let them pass  
> And oh, baby I am yours  
> I said oh, baby I am yours"
> 
> (different pulses | asaf avidan)

Paul still hasn’t surfaced from his trailer when Ezekiel and more of his people arrive at Hilltop’s gates. Rick even comments to Daryl about it, asking him where Jesus is like Daryl is his keeper. Daryl’s grumbled answer of “Sleepin’, I guess,” has Rick nodding like his knowledge of this topic _means_  something. Either that, or Daryl is just paranoid. It could be either option.

Ezekiel doesn’t come with news, but he does come with supplies to add to Hilltop’s dwindling numbers. His guards lead others into bringing their haul past the walls while Maggie discusses what Paul had told her and Glenn before he’d turned in for the night.

“There’s a little place a few hours from here. A town that was barricaded. Jesus said it fell apart, there’re walkers everywhere, which means they might still have things. Or it might just be a place we can relocate if things get too bad here. Just for a while.”

“Sounds like somethin’ to look into,” Rick agrees, taking the map from Glenn to look at the shapes and notations. “We could send some people on ahead, have ‘em take a look, make some kind of plan. We could use it as an out if the numbers get too bad or maybe set up another ambush.”

“Wouldn’t he see that coming?” Tobin asks from Carol’s side.

“Wouln’t know from where,” Daryl grunts. “We could use the geeks, too. Like when we hit the walls. Buy us some time.”

“Yeah, but we can’t _waste_  time tryin’ to buy more. I thought maybe Negan would have charged at nightfall, there aren’t many places for us to go, but he still hasn’t shown up. I don’t like that.”

“We’ll do all we can,” Michonne says. “We still have weapons. We still have people. And we have a base. We just need to see this through.”

“We will.”

“Let’s just do what we can __while__ we can,” Glenn adds. Those are the words that finish the conversation and prompt everyone to move onto their tasks.

Daryl meets Earl at his stall, grunting at the man when he’s offered a hello. His eyes catch sight of the arrows he’d left strewn across the wooden counter, brows furrowing when he sees that most of them are already completed. When he looks up, Earl is watching him.

“Thanks,” Daryl offers as he grabs them up. Earl nods at him in return, smiling pleasantly at Daryl’s acceptance of his help.

It probably hadn’t taken Earl long to finish what Daryl had started, but the fact of the matter was that he didn’t __have__  to. He didn’t have to spend time working on arrows for a crossbow when he could have been forging more knives or spears, maybe work on the shield Daryl had seen him put away on a bottom shelf. But Earl had done it anyway, just because, just to help, and Daryl hopes he can repay the man some day. Maybe bring him back a deer, if he can find one. If it he keeps trudging through this mess, then he has a few things to look forward to.

Like going on that scouting trip with Paul.

The conversation hadn’t been one he’d expected, although he can’t really say it came out of nowhere. Whatever was happening between himself and Paul-- It was more than a little something, he could feel that now. And Paul telling him that the one thing he’d choose to do, out of anything in the world, was to simply go on a scouting mission with Daryl? Well, how could he ignore something like that? He couldn’t. And he never really did, if he was honest with himself.

Paul had dug beneath Daryl’s skin the moment they’d meant, that cocky exterior as he introduced himself -- _Paul Rovia, but my friends used to call me Jesus_ \-- made him want to put a hole in the man just because. And then he’d taken their truck, followed on top of it even after they’d managed to get it back, not to mention how he’d forced Daryl to chase him around and practically wrestle him to the ground until the man had gotten knocked unconscious by the same truck that rolled backward into the water. Admittedly, Daryl hadn’t _needed_  to chase him around that damn field, but the smug asshole made Daryl’s blood boil until he felt as if he had no choice but to kick his ass. Or try to. Paul had been fast and slippery, but not hostile. Not bad.

Rick had said that he knew Daryl wouldn’t have left Paul out there. At the time, Daryl was convinced he would have. But now… He’s not going to thank Rick for pressing the issue of getting the little ninja checked out, but he’s damn thankful that they’d gone through with it in the end. The embarrassment of Paul escaping on his watch was nothing compared to the relief he’d felt when he’d woken up in the back of a van with the face of _Jesus_  lingering above him. And even __that__  couldn’t compare to the cocktail of feelings that churned inside him whenever he so much as thought Paul’s name, let alone __looked__ at his stupid, pretty face.

Daryl was so fucked. How had things gotten this way? How had he turned into this mushy mess of emotions? Paul fucking Rovia.

He should be bothered by it. He should roll his eyes and scoff and tell the younger man to just leave him alone, to get any trace of ideas involving Daryl and Paul doing or being anything together out of his damn mind. He doesn’t _need_  Paul to care… But the problem is that he _wants_  Paul to; he wants Paul to care, to look at him and talk to him and smile at him like only he can. He wants Paul to want him. And somehow, that seems scarier than the prospect of one of them possibly dying in just a few hours.

Because what can he do when shit __is__  settled? When he doesn’t have a fight to hide behind? When Paul approaches him and simply waits for Daryl to say yes or no, let’s go on a run together. Yes or no, let me cook you something other than a damn rodent. Yes or no, let me hold your hand, let me kiss you, _let me never let you go._

_“You ever think about it? Settling down?”_

Maybe. Maybe he could. Maybe he should.

Or maybe he’s going overboard. Maybe Paul doesn’t want to settle down, let alone settle for someone like Daryl. He’d only said he’d cared about him, had only said he’d like to spend more time with him. They made a pretty good team, that could be reason enough. And Daryl is quiet; maybe Paul didn’t want someone as chatty as he was to follow him around, filling up the silence when he could easily do that himself. He’d kissed him on the balcony, but that could have been just for fun, for something to do, especially if Daryl had somehow been acting as if he would be open to such a thing.

And then after, when he’d dragged Paul behind one of Alexandria’s houses and smashed their mouths together in a poor imitation of the memory he’d had on loop, Paul asking for another didn’t mean anything beyond him wanting to feel something other than death and destruction and fear. Daryl could be reading this whole situation the wrong way, trying to work through shit and come to terms with _maybe_  having feelings for someone. For a man. Feelings that spanned beyond the love he had for his friends and family, when all he really needed to do was close himself off before someone got the wrong idea. Go back to the way things had been. Cut ties. Stop himself from looking like a damn fool by reaching so far out to nothing.

Definitely not for the first time, Paul’s words echo through him: _When you… when you want someone and they don’t want you back, it’s not simple, Daryl. It’s really, really hard. And all you want to do is try even when you know you should give up. Have you ever felt that way for someone?_

And all Daryl knew was that his answer to that question couldn’t be a _no_ anymore.

Daryl stops in his tracks when he hears a shout, so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t even realized he’d been wandering the grounds of Hilltop with his arrows clutched to his chest. He turns to the gates when the shouting gets louder, body tensing when he spots Kal’s frantic movements atop his perch.

“--coming! They’re coming! Get ready!” Kal and Eduardo scream, banging their spears against wood, whistling as high pitched as possible to try and alert the community. People start to gather around, guns drawn, while others run to the trailers and Barrington to gather the rest.

“Stop right there!” Daryl hears Kal shout into the distance when he starts walking to the walls, his feet picking up speed when Kal continues his warnings. It’s Negan, it has to be, finally here to finish the war. “You have no idea what’s on the other side of these walls. Believe me when I say you will _not_ survive--”

The sound of the gunshot still makes Daryl flinch, his eyes widening when he sees blood spurt from Kal’s head, his body falling off the wall completely, hitting the dirt with a sickening thud. He skids to a stop some feet away, chest heaving as Eduardo tries to jump down to safety just before the gates get rammed open.

Daryl can’t reach for his crossbow. He’d left it inside Paul’s trailer, hadn’t thought to grab it even though he __knew__  the Saviors could come crashing through their walls at any fucking second. His head has been all over the place, his emotions like a tidal wave, a personification of that lonely ocean-side he’d seen in Aaron’s place. He doesn’t know if it’s still in-tact or if that, too, had burned to ash. Daryl can only swear that he won’t be next. He won’t be that expanse of water, frozen in time, crumbling into dust as the world erases it from existence.

He’s got a gun and the knife Paul had given him, the latter’s resilience surging through his body the moment his grip tightens on the hilt. He’s also got an armful of arrows he can try to force through soft tissue by the strength of his own hand, if need be, like the way one that had torn through his side when he’d rolled down that embankment. He’s got options.

He thinks about rushing back towards the trailers as others rush towards the gate, but Negan’s bulldozing his way into Hilltop and Daryl can’t leave, not even for a minute, not with walkers piling in all around them, Negan using their own trick against them. All Daryl can do is get to work and hope that someone is formulating a plan of attack that goes beyond defensive.

It’s a tired routine, one that’s almost calming until jaws start snapping too close to his flesh, then the spark of fear kicks in and catapults him into auto-drive. He isn’t worried about getting swarmed. Everyone around them is fighting for their lives, a remix of that night in Alexandria where they had overcome the invasion. He’d had an RPG then, only has a knife and some stray arrows now, a few bullets, but Daryl can’t think about not making it through. He won’t think about losing anyone else even though it’s inevitable.

Rick needs to stay back, Aaron needs to stay with Eric, Paul--

Well, of fucking course Paul wouldn’t stay sleeping through all this noise. And Daryl can see him disappearing behind the row of trailers, taking the longer way around towards the holding walls, the hidden path. He tries to keep an eye out for him even as he meets Morgan near Earl’s stall, grabbing the head of a lurker and slamming it into the wooden table multiple times as Morgan knocks down bodies with swift, cutting strokes of his staff.

The tiger’s sudden growl has Daryl flinching, flattening his body to the dead one still in his grasp as the beast leaps past him and Morgan in a lunging attack at the first wave of Saviors breaking through. Daryl doesn’t understand how the tiger knows who’s friendly and who’s not, maybe it’s something to do with scent, but he __does__ feel a modicum of relief at the prospect of not having to fight off a damn wild animal on top of everything else.

As the gate crashes fully to the ground, debris covering Kal’s body among many others, Daryl can see that the driver of the truck-turned-dozer is none other than Simon, his grin shining through the dusty windshield like a beacon of doom. He knows Negan must not be too far behind, not daring to witness the final downfall of the people who have caused him so much grief by refusing to fall in line to his order.

The Saviors break off in different directions, heading left and right and center. Daryl darts to the side, shoving through the rotting corpses clawing at his clothes, pulling his gun to take aim at whoever is closest. He strikes one through the forehead, aiming a second shot as he kicks at a walker, but a blur from his peripheral catches his attention.

There’s no long coat, no hat pulled over his head haphazardly, no gloves stretched over his hands. His vest is fastened over the crumpled shirt he’d fallen asleep in, knives still hanging on his belt as he swings Daryl’s crossbow like Negan swings the bat. He downs bodies one after the other, stomping on heads to finish the job before hopping over to propel himself into the next kill.

“Daryl--” he huffs once he spots Daryl running closer. And when the wide gap between them continues closing in, Paul tosses the weapon to be caught within Daryl’s waiting hands. “What do we do?”

Daryl bends over slightly to use his thighs as a steady surface, piling arrows as quickly as he can into the mounted quiver while Paul circles around towards his back. The only thing he can think of is:

“Gotta push ‘em out somehow.”

“Or trap them in?” Paul counters, grunting when one of his knives gets momentarily stuck inside a decaying skull. “Damage the truck, block the hole somehow? And-- and the windows!”

Daryl looks up to Barrington on instinct, squinting as the sight of Maggie poking the barrel of her sniper rifle through the pane suddenly comes into view. Smart. Of course she’d think of it first.

“Get Sasha up there. Maybe Gabriel, if we got enough rifles.”

“I’ll find them,” Paul insists, shaking his head when Daryl’s mouth opens in a protest. “ _I’ll find them._ I’ll get them up there. Keep fighting, okay? Whatever it takes. Don’t stop.”

They don’t have time to share a look of knowing or acceptance, a look of _I better see you soon._ They don’t have time to say anything else. Daryl turns his back when Paul does, weaving around towards the gap in the fence as Paul sprints in the opposite direction.

It’s the final showdown, Daryl can feel it. This has to be it. They still have the numbers. They still have the conviction. They still have a __chance__ , and that’s all he’s ever really needed. Just a chance -- to get away from his dad, to escape Merle’s shadow, to grow into someone that was destined for more than __nothing__.

He follows the wave of defense, shooting the arrows Earl had helped him make and then yanking them back out, blood squelching and wood splintering with every reuse. He loops his arms through the strap when he’s too close to fire it, brandishing his knife with a predatory stance, staring down the oncoming Saviors like they’re already a bunch of corpses. It makes no difference to Daryl who or what they are; the enemy is the enemy, no matter the state of their minds.

There’s a flash of Rick ripping out Joe’s throat with his own teeth, the shock of it, but his brother’s resolve being so clear that Daryl knew he would do it again if he had to. And Daryl will become a monster to fight the monsters, if _he_  has to. To hunt the boogeyman until someone else can shine their light on him, to vanquish those demons from their home. If Daryl’s lucky, his own will be cleansed by nightfall. But for now… Well, he’s always been a survivor.

The man lunging towards him is slighter than him, swinging a crowbar towards his head. He ducks out of the way, jamming the blade of his knife up into the soft flesh between ribs, rushing the wriggling body over towards the row of fence that still stands. The knife slides out, finding a new home in the jugular, blood spurting out onto his face as the man gurgles. Daryl barely has time to yank his weapon out before he feels something slip around his neck, bodily dragging him backwards into whoever’s trying to choke him out. He lets his weight fall suddenly in a panic before an arm can steady him in a grip, knocking his assailant down with him and rolling, grappling the large woman who’s seeking to wrap the fishing wire tighter around his neck.

She lets out a wail when a knife slams down into her shoulder, the familiar knuckled handle glinting in the sunlight. Daryl’s eyes follow Carol’s hand as she breaks the blade from flesh, slamming it down into the woman’s other shoulder before she can try to grab for Daryl again. Prying the makeshift garrote wire from her curled fingers, he then slams the heel of his boot into her face to put distance between them so Carol can deliver the finishing stab.

He’s got his bow across his back, a knife and gun at his belt, and the weapons from his two attackers -- a crowbar and a fishing wire garrote -- in either hand. Daryl speeds away with Carol, slamming a freshly turned walker into her path for dispatch while his legs sprint him towards the opposite end of the walls as they, too, start to crumble against the weight Simon’s truck caving them in.

Echoes from rifles firing start up steadily and Daryl doesn’t have to turn to know that Maggie, Sasha, and Gabriel have made it up to the roof windows. Their own little sniper firing squad, holding down a vantage point Negan’s men have no equivalent to. Not here, not in there domain. Daryl spots his friends around him, keeping up the fight, never slowing down. Tara, sticking close to the medical trailer, she and Aaron helping to defend the wounded and the trained on the inside; Morgan’s staff swiping through the air, his back to Ezekiel’s while his tiger claws anyone who gets too close; Michonne’s katana slicing through faces and arms and torsos, her damp face a mask of pure determination while Carl and Glenn flank her with machine guns; Earl and Eduardo putting those spears to good use.

Carol stays by Daryl’s side, slashing and shooting while he grapples a man away from Dante, using the wire he’d snatched to choke the life out of him. He breaks off when the body sags out of his grip, making a beeline for the wall to his right.

When Simon’s truck slows to a halt, becoming stuck on the logs the wheels are trying to roll over, Daryl tosses the crowbar into the air and catches it in a tight grip, using the momentum of a jump to smash into the windshield. Simon ducks down to protect himself as the glass smashes inwards, cracks spider-webbing like when Paul had broken into that little convenience store at the gas station they’d stopped at.

Simon can’t escape through the door on the driver’s side, not with Daryl blocking it and swinging the crowbar into the window there, too. So he scrambles to exit the other side, falling into the dirt as Daryl crawls across the large, too-hot hood in a race to get to the big-foreheaded fucker before he can slither away. When Daryl drops down next to him, he manages to kick away the gun that Simon reaches for.

They push up into a stand at the same time, Simon’s dark eyes glistening as they stare narrowly at him, that wide mouth stretched into a crooked smirk.

“Now, wait--”

The crowbar, white-knuckled in Daryl’s grip, rises up high and then slams down into Simon’s head before any more words can escape off his tongue. It drops his spasming body to the ground -- Abraham, falling forward with the first strike of the bat, raising his head with one final act of defiance. Blood runs down Simon’s face, head swaying as he tries and fails to rise like Abe had, lacking the strength and the conviction to look Daryl in the eye for one final time. Daryl’s lungs won’t accept any air as he slams the crowbar to connect with the back of Simon’s head, his own body bending forward to keep the connection -- metal against flesh and bone and blood and brain -- for as long as he can. It’s a blur of red and black, his heartbeat hammering like a war drum inside the blankness of his mind, suffocation impending as he _hits_  and _hits_  and _hits_  without pause.

“--yl”

He thinks he can hear himself, for a moment; high-pitched whimpers tearing from his vocal chords, melding with the gunfire and screams.

_“Daryl!”_

His head jerks in surprise at the sound of his name. His body goes slack as he stands up straighter, a gulp of air feeding his angry lungs, and he sees through sweat and tears and matted strands of hair that Paul is standing there, staring at him with wide, horrified eyes, lips parted in something Daryl doesn’t want to decipher.

Paul’s gaze trails from Daryl to the body on the ground, nothing substantial or recognizable left where the head had once been. And when Daryl follows that line of sight, Abraham flashes through his conscious once more. He wonders if Rory flashes through Paul’s thoughts, too. If Negan does.

Daryl takes a shaky breath and throws the crowbar towards the windshield of the still-running truck, letting it fly and clank to settle up on the hood.

“Whatever it takes,” Daryl manages to huff breathlessly, stepping away from Simon’s body, ignoring the war still raging on around them. Just for a moment.

He told himself he would become a monster, and Paul should be looking at him like he is one, but he’s _not _\--__

The younger man gives a tug to the bandanna around his neck, pulling it away from his skin and moving closer, keeping a wide berth away from the remains on the ground. He sets his eyes to lock on Daryl’s face, throat working with a swallow that looks like too much of a struggle. Then he touches Daryl’s face gently with one hand, holding beneath his gray-scruffed chin while the other hand reaches up to wipe the slowly-drying blood away with his bandanna. Daryl has the one Paul had given him for the burials back at Alexandria still, shoved into the back pocket of his torn jeans, but he allows Paul to continue to scrub at the streaks on his face with the ninja’s breath baited.

The cloth feels soft against his rough skin -- or maybe it’s the touch behind the cloth that feels this way, gentle and uncertain but still committed to the task. When those shining blue-green irises meet his blue-gray, the terrible thing Daryl had just done starts to fade away.

“Whatever it takes,” Paul whispers back. Daryl can tell he doesn’t like the words or the fact that he’d said them first, but he understands, he __knows;__  this world, this life, Daryl. And he knows what they have to do to survive so they can _live._  “Are you… okay?”

They flinch when gunfire from too close by interrupts the inquiry, with Paul acting fast enough to pull them both down behind the other side of the truck. Daryl starts to pull the bow from his back the moment he sees a van backing up onto the grounds of Hilltop, a handful of Negan’s men rushing to open the back to reveal more walkers to match the roamers already being drawn over by the ruckus. The trick they’d learned from the Governor and used on Sanctuary itself being thrown back at them albeit on a much smaller scale. Perhaps as Negan’s final push.

Daryl’s sick of this fucking bullshit.

His back rolls against the side of the low-humming truck, body popping back out into the open with his crossbow raised, finger on the trigger.

He’s not the only one taking action, of course. Michonne surpasses Daryl to get up on the front-lines, spinning into a slash with her sword. Morgan follows her to get in close, working in tandem with her to cut down the numbers before they can begin to spread outward. Daryl hangs back with Glenn to shoot, glancing at Paul when he joins the team front and center, ninja’ing them closer to getting rid of all enemies within whatever walls are left as the van darts down the muddy road, leaving the Savior’s that had been on foot to choke in the dust. Most of them end up getting mowed down by Carl’s gunfire as the teenager ignores Michonne’s warnings to get back.

It’s then that Rick appears beside Glenn and Daryl, shirt and face and hands covered in bloodstains, indicating that he hadn’t spent the whole time in the medical trailer like he should have. Daryl can’t fault him, though. He wouldn’t have stepped aside while this was happening either.

The fighters start to pass the initial threat to head out beyond the walls, trying to stop more of the roamers from pouring in. Tobin, Dante, Earl, Francine, Rosita -- all moving swiftly to keep Hilltop from being overrun completely.

“We need to cover the hole!” Rick shouts into Daryl’s ear as Glenn continues to empty his automatic from beside them.

“My people and I arrived in buses!” Ezekiel replies suddenly from behind. “We hid them in the brush, as Jesus does. Perhaps you could line them up as a temporary barricade?”

“I’ll go,” Paul pipes up, chest heaving as he works to catch his breath. “Where’re the keys?”

“Inside your Barrington, on the table nearest the door.”

Paul gives a jerk of his head and begins a race towards the big house, curious eyes passing over him briefly before others begin to venture outside the walls, too.

“Nobody’s killed that asshole yet?” Tara wonders aloud, her fingers fidgeting with the gun in her grasp. It’s covered in red, as if she’d ran out of ammo and began using it as a blunt force weapon instead. “He got away again?”

“Musta,” Daryl grunts. “The van that took off? Had to be him and Dwight. Left a lotta people behind, though.”

“Can’t have many more,” Rick agrees.

“So we’re winning?” It’s Carl this time, looking up at his father from beneath the brim of his hat, dark hair stuck to the sweat on his face.

Rick’s hand squeezes his son’s shoulder as he says, “Yeah, I think we are. But we’re not done yet. He’ll be back. And we’ll be ready.”

The sky had begun to gray over nearly an hour ago, the clouds plumping up angrily in preparation of a watery assault upon their heads. Rain begins to pelt down as they stand, clothes and hair soaking through, the dried mud pathway turning squelchy. It turns into a steady downpour within seconds, but no thunder sounds and no lightning strikes, and even though it’s hard to see through the constant flow of droplets and curtain falls of hair, Daryl’s skin begins to feel refreshed. Cleansed. The breath he takes is filled with the scent of wet dirt rather than decaying bodies.

Paul makes it back with the keys not too long later, handing out the little pieces of metal to Michonne, Morgan, Daryl, Eduardo, and Tara, as well as keeping one for himself. Each key has a labeled number to correspond with the correct bus, but Ezekiel and his people had separated them upon arrival, hiding them within the east and west sides of the wooded areas surrounding Hilltop.

They break away to complete their tasks, rushing through the diminishing hoard to look through the brush on either side of the long pathway, attempting to find the vehicle that will start with their designated key. Daryl ends on the west side with Morgan and Tara, the three of them cutting down the few corpses that attempt to thwart their efforts.

Daryl hops up into the fading yellow bus, kicking the folding door shut behind him. Rain clanks against the metal, splattering the windshield. He starts the behemoth up and looks around, pulling out of the branches and mud in a slow roll towards the fallen walls. Morgan and Tara follow him out, the trail of buses meeting with Michonne’s near where the gate had been before Negan’s newest arrival. But where there should be two other buses also following behind Michonne, there are none, and Daryl wonders what kind of trouble Paul and Eduardo could have gotten into during this one little task.

He has to focus on _this_  now, though; has to pull up to form a blockade with Morgan and Tara while Michonne begins the formation of one on the other side. She’s the first to exit the vehicle, carefully helping Tobin down the steps, Francine rushing frantically behind them. Even from here, Daryl can see the torn flesh of his neck, the blood drenching his dirtied t-shirt as she scurries him towards the medical trailer.

He doesn’t have time to rest his head against the steering wheel to comprehend yet another loss. He can only inhale deeply through his nose and stumble back out of the bus, running around the side to exit through the gaping hole that still needs cover. And he scans the field before him. His friends fighting off the last wave, covered in mud and blood, the latter of which Daryl isn’t sure of whom it belongs. Have more people gotten bitten? Lapsed for one moment for whatever reason -- to help another, to look up at any little noise that might indicate Negan’s return, to slip because of exhaustion? It’s so easy to forget how much of a threat the dead could be when all their focus is on fearing the living.

But these mindless bodies had started it all, killed society, allowed people to step out of the shadows to show how monstrous they truly were. And it’s here that he thinks of Dale, after all this time. When he’d fought for the life a kid Daryl couldn’t care less about -- not until he’d thought about Dale’s plea, not until it had been too late. _The world we knew is gone, but keeping our humanity? That’s a choice._

What Daryl had done earlier, becoming Negan in the only way he __ever__ would… And the way Paul had looked at him, the way he’d accepted it despite that horror because he knew they had to do __whatever__  they could to survive. _We ain’t them._ That’s what Daryl had said to Rick back in that barn before Aaron had found them. __We ain’t them__. Not the walking dead, not the living beasts. Not the monsters. He could do terrible things in the name of protecting his family, protecting the people he loved, and it would haunt him for the rest of his life. But he would still do them __because__  of his humanity; __for it__ , and for the humanity of others. If it was just an excuse to justify his actions, he would still take it. Because this _is_  how they live. And this is how they defeat Negan and all the other fuckers who want to be like him. Daryl didn’t care what that meant. This was the next world, after all. They needed to make it a good one.

A sharp noises sparks him back to the present, louder than the rest of the noise, and his head jerking towards the east side of Hilltop. A pang of panic shakes his chest.

He rushes into a sprint, not having to look behind to know that Tara and Morgan are at his heel, keeping a steady pace a few feet behind. From the corner of his eye, Daryl can see one of Ezekiel’s men getting torn into as he speeds past, slipping over a patch of fresh mud. His hand slides against the wet grass, pushing himself back onto his feet, then he resumes his run around the corner. It’s mere seconds before he freezes, nearly slipping once more.

The hissing and growling of the walkers is nearly drowned out by the rain pelting down around them, but their movements -- frantic and nearly all in sync -- capture Daryl’s gaze. They’re feeding, tearing open a body and eating someone’s intestines, bony fingers clawing at skin and cotton and guts. It’s only a moment that his heart clenches so tightly that Daryl feels like it might explode, but the fear lingers even as a breath comes more easily as soon as he spots a hand outstretched from the top of the bus.

Paul is stuck up there, fingers spread out towards the group of huddling bodies, eyes wide as he watches who Daryl assumes to be Eduardo being devoured right in front of him. He’s helpless to it, completely and incredibly so, and Daryl figures this might be the first time in a long time that Paul hasn’t been able to act, to make a choice, to _help_  somebody. His friend.

When one of the corpses begins to rise and turn, human meat dangling from it’s misshapen jaw, reaching with a guttural growl for Paul’s frozen fingers, Daryl aims his bow and fires an arrow. The body drops, falling atop the others. Some begin to stir, looking up to where Paul begins to scramble, knocked into motion by Daryl’s shot, while the others continue to eat Eduardo’s remains.

Daryl meets Paul’s shocked gaze for a flash. And then Tara is shooting her Smith & Wesson and Morgan is swinging his staff, and Daryl runs forward with another arrow soaring through the air, backing himself up to the other side of the bus. He catches Paul just as the younger man begins to jump off, grabbing onto Daryl’s shoulders as he eases the impact, dropping him to his feet with ease.

“You bit?” he asks, ducking his head to try and get Paul to look at him. His hair is soaked, strands sticking randomly to patches of skin on his face. Clothes turning see-through, hanging heavily over his lean frame. And his eyes still seem out of focus, landing on Daryl without their usual intensity. _“Paul._ You get bit? Hurt?”

“No,” he says with a swallow. “No, no, I…”

Those wide orbs trail back over to wear Tara and Morgan are finishing off the group, their corpses covering Eduardo’s, blocking him from view.

“You got the key still?”

“Yeah--” Paul reaches into the pocket of his pants, digging out the numbered metal key. When Daryl reaches to snatch it, Paul draws it back. _“I got it,”_ he says sharply, jaw clenching as he works to get a hold of himself. He looks Daryl square in the face, blue eyes looking somehow stormy, especially with the way the water droplets cling to his dark lashes. “I can do this, just… just find the other key.”

Daryl doesn’t move from his spot until he sees Paul climb safely into the bus and begins to drive it towards the front of Hilltop’s walls. Even then, Daryl lingers on the slowly-disappearing vehicle, only moving to join Morgan and Tara to help yank bodies off of Eduardo’s when he’s sure Paul can no longer see through the rear-view mirror.

Tara finds the key after a moment of searching Eduardo’s jeans, volunteering herself to drive. She clambers into the driver’s seat while Daryl and Morgan climb up to stand in the aisle, getting out of the downpour for the moment. She doesn’t drive towards the walls like Paul had, however, choosing to instead stop to gather the stumbling people into the temporary shelter to lead them back onto the grounds after their hard-won battle defending the colony from the hoard. Some of the people Daryl helps settle into the first few seats are putting pressure on bite wounds, the sharp sounds of their sobs pounding the sides of Daryl’s skull until he feels as if his bones have surely cracked.

Not all of these people are going to make it. Hardly any of them will, Daryl knows. Maybe only one -- Scott -- if he survives the amputation, the blood loss. Tyreese hadn’t… Then again, they’d been on the road without a doctor. And Hershel __had__  been fine before, had been a tough son of a bitch right up until the end.

Daryl is fucking tired of losing people. His nose stings and his eyes begin to blur with tears. But he won’t let them fall. They’re not done yet.

Paul’s waiting near the gap as Tara pulls the bus up into the last empty space, managing the tight space between the wall and the bus in front will only a couple of tries. But Morgan and Daryl are leading the injured out before the vehicle even stops fully moving, Paul and Glenn and Dante immediately coming forward to prop up Scott and Bertie and the others, leading them towards the medical trailer like Michonne and Francine had done with Tobin. Daryl and Tara rush to follow.

The medical trailer is packed with patients and helpers and people who are too worried to leave. Tara joins Rosita, Alex, and Harlan in helping gather supplies and tend to those who are already in the midst of being checked on while Aaron leaves Eric’s side to move cots around for the injured to rest upon. Carol, kneeling at Tobin’s side, putting pressure on his neck despite them both knowing what this means. Maggie and Rick are here, too, moving around in a flutter despite their own conditions.

Alex digs through the counters by the doors when Paul steps inside fully, having lingered to give a quick sweep of the grounds to see if he could catch sight of anyone else in need. And when Alex spots him, he pulls Paul into a tight hug, shaking arms wrapping around each other in a fleeting moment of comfort. Daryl forces himself to stomp on the negative swell of emotions that begin to boil inside, the twinge of jealous anger he’s not used to feeling over _people_ , tearing his gaze away instead to focus on something else, moving to help hold Scott in place as Rick hurriedly tries to disinfect his axe.

He shouldn’t be doing this, exerting himself so shortly after getting hurt, but no one tries to stop him. Not even Daryl. He just holds onto Scott, letting the man dig the tips of his fingers into Daryl’s forearm with bruising force while Rick hacks away. The screaming doesn’t get tempered.

Daryl shuts his eyes tight.

* * *

 

Hilltop looks almost as bad as Alexandria had. Bodies lining the dirt and grass, buses covering spots where walls had been that morning, weapons strewn and scent of death finally wafting through the air now that the rain had stopped. Everything is still dreary and wet, including the clothes clinging to Daryl’s skin and the damp hair slowly drying in knotted waves around his face. But nothing’s burnt to ash here. He supposes that’s a plus.

He’s been leaning against a squared pillar in front of the infirmary for the past ten minutes, too tired to push away to aid in the slow-going efforts of trying to drag bodies into different piles. Staring up at the sky, at the dark clouds slowly disappearing as afternoon turns to evening. Finishing off the cigarette he’s barely smoked from, he grinds it beneath his boot.

He peers over his shoulder to look through the window, biting on his nail as he watches Tobin speak quietly to Carol, his body slowly succumbing to the fever. Scott had passed out while what was left of his arm was being cauterized and Bertie had wanted to be put down right away, knowing there was nothing that could be done to help her. Others had taken the similar path, either leaving the room to do it themselves or having someone they loved taking hold of their final moments.

Daryl faces forward again, dropping his hand from his mouth to focus on breathing instead. Just breathing. Slow, even inhalations. Slow, even exhalations. It doesn’t do a damn for him, just somehow succeeds in making him even more jittery.

“Daryl?”

Paul’s voice is soft in tone, inquisitive in nature. It lilts with exhaustion and concern. It’s funny how he can tell all this from Paul speaking his two-syllable name.

He rolls his head against the pillar to get Paul into his view, watching the other man step closer quietly, arms crossed tightly over his chest while his shoulders hunch. Daryl’s own fingers pick at the ties of his beat-up vest.

“What?”

Paul doesn’t say anything right away. He leans against one of the other sides making up the square structure, head tilting towards Daryl’s against the sharp corner where edges meet. Daryl twists his neck a little farther to be able to glance down at Paul’s face with more clarity.

His dark hair is matted and frizzy, golden flecked strands barely a glimmer in the amber lights shining hazily above the porch behind them. He smells like copper and chemicals and dirt. And he looks so bare without the usual getup, but not stripped away like he had in Alex’s trailer. Not vulnerable by choice, but by circumstance.

“Tobin got bit while he was protecting Francine. That’s what she told me,” Paul whispers, breath ghosting across Daryl’s nose. “Dante’s knife got stuck and Scott stepped in. Brianna saw Bertie trying to help her son. He ran out there because he knew she was in trouble. Gus, Marcus, Zach… Ezekiel said he saw them all get shot down by the Saviors. They, uh, they said that’s what happened to Kal, too.”

“He was warnin’ ‘em away. Doin’ what he was s’posed to. They just…”

Paul nods at Daryl’s lapse, straightening his neck to stare straight forward. Daryl keeps his eyes on the side of his face, muddy streaks painting his skin. With his head tilted back, Daryl can see his throat bob when he swallows thickly.

“You know, the night after Rory died, Kal was one of the first people to react positively? He went around, asking if anybody needed anything, if he could _do_  something. I mean, it wasn’t-- there wasn’t anything to fix, it was over, but Kal tried. And I shouldn’t’ve said what I said to him. He was trying out there, too. He was just-- he wanted to help. I know what that’s like. It doesn’t always work and I know what _that’s_  like, too. He probably thought I hated him--”

“Don’t,” Daryl interjects gruffly. “Don’t matter what he thought. He’s gone. But you’re here and what you’re thinkin’s gonna stick with you. So don’t, Paul.”

It’s easier said than done, Daryl knows this first hand. The weight of every loss they’ve suffered has fallen upon Daryl’s shoulders, weighing him down even if there was absolutely nothing he could have done to stop it. Because there’s _always_  something that could have changed, something he could have done differently, someone he could have saved. Paul doesn’t need to think like this, too. He doesn’t deserve that burden. None of this is his fault.

“Yeah, well… Eduardo?” Paul’s voice pitches a little higher as he attempts to fight back tears. “We reached my bus first. And I started to go inside, but they were just __there__. The door was open, I should have checked, I was so fucking _stupid._ But they started coming out and Eddie heard me fighting them, and he came back to help. Then suddenly we were surrounded -- they were coming from the woods -- and… I thought we could run. It was the only thing we __could__  do. Lead them away. But he wouldn’t. He grabbed me and he tried to push me up. Struggling would only take more time, so I let him do it. I let him and-- They started tearing him open before I could even--”

Paul’s arms drop from his chest like lead, falling to his side in an almost lifeless swing. And Daryl knows Paul is crying, the choked off words being the major indicator, but he’d know just by the way the younger man starts to spin away. Not wanting his own suffering to be seen or heard. Daryl has half a mind to let him go; that’s what he would want, if he was breaking down in front of Paul. Suffering in silence had been the one constant throughout his entire life. But he can’t do that now. He won’t let Paul go this alone.

So Daryl grabs Paul’s hand tightly before he can get too far, keeping him in place. He waits to see if the younger man will pull away, but… he doesn’t. He allows himself to be pulled back to lean against the pillar, the sharp edge no doubt digging into his back as Daryl leads him closer still.

“He got you up there, that’s the last thing he did. ‘Cause he wanted you safe. He made his choice. _He_  did. Lotta people woulda done the same for you.”

Paul’s fingers tighten painfully around Daryl’s. Holding on for dear life. His big eyes are too-bright and red-rimmed, but they don’t shy from Daryl’s gaze, mesmerizing him with intense indignation.

“You better not _ever_  do something like that, Daryl,” he practically growls, jaw working from one side to the other, teeth grinding as he waits to see if Daryl will respond. “I fucking swear -- Don’t. Not for me. Don’t do that _to_ me--”

Daryl shakes his head, unable to say a word because he knows that he would in a heartbeat. He’d give himself up for any member of his family. God knows every single one of them deserves to live more than he ever could. But Paul doesn’t want to hear that Daryl would do the same exact thing as Eduardo had, doesn’t want to have that plaguing his mind like every other horror, so Daryl doesn’t speak. He closes his eyes and wraps his other arm around Paul’s shoulder, hauling him into a snug embrace.

The hand that’s squeezed by Paul gets a moment of reprieve, bones throbbing in the aftermath but gently soothed when the ninja’s thin fingers slip between his own, fitting into their slots perfectly. His other arm moves up to wrap around Daryl’s torso, too, grabbing at the nape of Daryl’s neck while Daryl cradles the back of Paul’s head.

The younger man’s hair is still damp deep by the scalp, both of their wet shirts clinging to their chests, sending a chill up Daryl’s arms when they collide. He turns his head to press his nose against the younger man’s head and gets a whiff of something floral-like lingering beneath the gunk from the day. When Daryl’s lips tentatively press against Paul’s temple, the floodgates seem to open.

Fingers get swiftly pulled from his in favor of the arm they belong to flinging around Daryl’s waist, grabbing a fistful of vest. The hand at the back of Daryl’s neck gets replaced with the crook of Paul’s elbow, the smaller body burrowing itself more deeply against him, as if trying to forge themselves into one. And Daryl hides his face within Paul’s hair, rapid heart syncing with rapid heart until their beats begin to slow and match evenly. Until Daryl’s frantic breaths settle into a form of calm that only Paul seems to bring out for him.

Daryl holds onto Paul and Paul holds onto him, and even though knows there’s more shit raring to come their way, he can let himself pretend for this one instant that there’s nothing but _this _.__  Just the two of them, a rock and an anchor, propping each other up rather than weighing each other down. Steady and strong, right in their mismatched ways.

“I’m sorry,” Paul’s muffled voice says softly against Daryl’s neck.

His brows furrow, mouth slipping into a frown against Paul’s hair.

“For what?”

“For everything. All of this.”

“Man, ain’t none of this your fault. _None_  of it.”

Paul’s eyes look a little more dry when he pulls back to catch Daryl’s gaze gravely.

“None of it’s yours, either. Don’t act like you’re not thinking it is.” When Daryl turns his head away, Paul’s fingers grip his chin firmly, forcing him to maintain eye contact. “There’s a lot that went into this. It’s not just on one person, it’s not even just on Negan. We’re in this together. Tell me you know that.”

“I know it.” Daryl’s nod is minuscule, but indicative of his agreement. Because he does know that, he __does__.

Glenn, Rick, Paul… even Daryl himself, they’ve all said this at one point or another. __Together__. How important that word is to him now when it meant so little before. He can count on ‘together.’ He has been for a while now, probably since he woke up in the back of that van with Paul’s face hovering above his and Tara in the driver’s seat.

He feels bad about the jealously that spiked through him when he’d witnessed Alex and Paul hug, so insecure with himself that he could think for even a second that he’d been replaced that quickly. But Alex had been here before him and hopefully he would remain even after, continuing to be one of the rare people that Paul seemed to latch onto.

Even so, part of Daryl can’t help thinking that the way Paul had hugged Alex hadn’t been anything like the way he’d thrown his arms around Daryl, and maybe it was petty to take comfort in such a comparison, but he would anyhow. Because Paul was still holding onto him now, arm folded around Daryl’s waist while his hand slid from gripping his scruffy chin to cupping his scruffy jaw. The way his eyes spoke to him alone was enough to have Daryl dropping his forehead to rest against the younger man’s tensed shoulder.

“M’here,” he says into the stiff cloth. He isn’t sure why, where the words or coming from, but they feel important. They feel right. “M’here. For you.”

He can feel Paul’s slow exhale against him, the clench of his stomach muscles. Blunt fingernails press into his neck while a thumb presses to the back of his ear.

“You are, huh?” The inflection is meant to be teasing, maybe coy, something Daryl would expect from him in any other circumstance. But it doesn’t translate properly, not now, ends up sounding questioning and insecure instead. Maybe even a little bit awestruck, like Paul wants to believe Daryl’s words but is too caught up in holding onto the doubts spinning through his mind, which probably happen to be some of the same doubts impeding Daryl’s.

“C’mon. You know I am.”

A breath of a laugh warms his skin, hands digging deeper into flesh and cloth.

“You are.”

If the sheer _wonderment_  in someone’s voice could break a heart and heal it at the same time, then it does. _It does_. He can feel it in every stitch of his being, threads that had been loosening suddenly pulling tight, igniting the kind of pain that could only precede restoration and its promise of relief.

The stubborn part of him doesn’t want to believe that this could be true, but if the boogeyman is real then maybe fairy-tale endings are, too; or something equivalent to one, something where they don’t end in a bloody mess of tears and finality, and instead end like a light flickering out when the flame gets too low. Natural. Fair. Nothing to be afraid of.

And Daryl can tell Paul he’s here for him because he’s never had a problem with being somewhere, it’s the notion of being _someone_  that’s always had him prowling back and forth but never forward, only having one foot stepped into a role he isn’t one hundred percent certain he can be apart of. He can be survivor, a hunter, a brother, a friend. He can be any of these things for Paul because he’s _here_ , they both are. And maybe he can be something -- _someone_  -- more.

God, he doesn’t want to think about that, but he can’t __not__. With Paul clinging to him, scent and body blending with his own, it’s pretty damn impossible to think of anything else.

“Hey--” Paul moves Daryl’s head up, loosening the embrace until they’re barely touching. Then he says, fervently, “Thanks. __Thank you__.”

The shake of Daryl’s head turns into more of a nod after a a few delayed seconds, his choice to accept Paul’s gratitude -- misplaced or not, he doesn’t even know what he’s _done_  -- being something of a revelation. He nods and nods and nods, lips twisting when a slow smile stretches over Paul’s mouth, the deep creases of joy emulating a chasm of comfort for Daryl’s nerves to sink into.

He wants to thank Paul, too. For everything that __he’s__ don’t, physical or otherwise. But he can’t yet get the words out. Daryl figures that’s okay. That even if they don’t have the time, Paul would still have that knowledge, unspoken as it is. Paul has to know the obvious. He _has_  to.

“Should help with the burnin’,” Daryl says at last, clearing his throat straight after. “Ain’t gonna sit around ‘til he comes back. Gotta do somethin’.”

The bandanna Paul had given him back at Alexandria is pulled from Daryl’s back pocket to be fasted around his neck, not yet getting pulled up around his nose and mouth.

“Incoming!”

They both turn towards the row of buses at the yell, catching sight of Dante jumping off into a roll before anything can harm him. Daryl didn’t think they’d be back this quickly, but he’s not surprised. Win or lose, this is truly it. This whole war with the Saviors needs to end now.

“Get Rick,” Daryl tells Paul, pulling the crossbow from where it’s been leaning on the other side of the pillar to prep it in his hands.

He sees Paul give a short nod before striding swiftly back into the infirmary, but Daryl doesn’t wait to ease himself closer, muscles strung with tension as he waits for whatever’s going to happen next. The survivors around him gravitate into a half circle, drawing their array of weapons. Glenn and Sasha join Daryl in creeping closer to the middle bus, cautiously listening as the low roar of the vehicle beyond their makeshift gate grows louder.

Daryl throws his arm out in warning just as metal crashes into metal, everyone taking a stumble back when the bus begins a forced slide inward, the gap reopening inches at a time.

“Who’s home in there?” Negan’s voice is unmistakable, even as it’s distorted by trying to shout above the creaking and clanking. “Not too many, is my guess. And to the people crawlin’ around inside -- I come in peace! Because _you_  just got your asses handed to ya. For what, a third time? Ah, hell. I ain’t keepin’ track. But I’m here to talk now. No more fighting ‘cause Lucille and I, well, we’re pretty damned satisfied with the current situation. _Hello?_  Speak the fuck up!”

“Stop! Please!” Glenn shouts, rushing several feet forward to stand by the back of the bus as it tips into an abrupt halt “Stop. We’re here. We can talk.”

Daryl paces to the side, peeking over Glenn’s shoulder to get a view of Negan cutting the engine of his dented truck and stepping out onto the mud. His smirk is maddening.

“What, really Scarface? _You’re_ their leader now?” Negan snorts, turning to Dwight -- who’s joined his side, a dozen men or so lining up behind them -- with a snicker. But his jovial mood gets cut short the moment Rick’s voice is heard.

“Nah,” he drawls, steady legs walking his body past Daryl and Glenn to stand only feet away from Negan. Once he’s there, he adds, “That’d still be me.”

“Well, what the _fuck,_ Dwight!”

“Don’t look at him,” Rick orders, head tilting and hand clutching at his side. “Look at me, Negan. I’m still here. _You’re_ still here. This whole thing -- fighting, this war -- what’s it gotten us?”

“It got us here, to this day. And let’s call it that, Rick. _A day.”_  Negan holds his arms out in a flourish, bat pointing to the darkening sky. His grin would be amiable if his eyes didn’t look like black holes ready to suck everything into nothingness. “So I can go home with the spoils of war, screw my wives, have a fucking steak ‘cause I am _fucking_ starved, and you can get yourself into recovery, since Dwighty-boy turned out to be such a shit fucking shot.”

All Daryl can see of Rick is the shake of his head.

“Let me put this into words you’ll understand,” he says lowly. Then, leaning closer to Negan’s towering frame: _“Fuck you.”_

Negan’s laugh is just as grating as every, that lingering garble from the back of his throat making Daryl tighten his grip on his crossbow.

“You wanna keep this up, Rick? You know what’ll happen if you do.”

“What I _know_  is that you’re the dumbest piece of shit alive.”

Negan’s smile drops faster than Daryl can even blink. In fact, he looks almost dumbfounded by Rick’s straight-laced insult.

_“What?”_

“We could’ve been working together this whole time instead of fightin’, instead of _dying._ Why are we even doin’ this? I’ll tell you what it’s like for _us._ We wanna live, but we can’t do that when a damn psycho shows up and threatens to kill us if we don’t give him half our shit. We can’t do that if we’re fightin’ you instead of the dead, the one thing we all have in common in this world. We’re fightin’ ‘cause of _you,_ Negan, so what’re _you_  doin’? Tryin’ to live without putting in the work. Sacrificing your own people in a war _you_  forced our hand in. We could be helpin’ each other! Working to make this world a better place, better than it was before. There aren’t a lot of us left. People. Instead of shooting each other in the back, we should be establishing something useful. Trading supplies and skills, building settlements, preserving humanity. We don’t have to do this… so why are we?”

“I’m saving lives,” Negan tries to counter. The confidence he’d arrived with is suddenly dissipating. “I know what it takes to survive. They need me -- to keep them in line, to keep them preoccupied so they don’t start thinkin’ about how truly fucking miserable they all are. And I was doin’ that, minding my own damn business, before you came around and killed a shit-ton of my men before we’d ever even been acquainted.”

“You were stealing from the Hilltop. From the Kingdom. You were doin’ to them what you’re doin’ to us. We made a deal to kill you, to take your place with the trading. Because then it’d be fair. We wouldn’t cheat them, we wouldn’t bash someone’s head in if somethin’ happened we didn’t like. Maybe I was wrong makin’ that call… but we did what we had to do. And you’re doin’ more than that. This whole war is more than that! You’re not a leader, Negan. You’re a leech. You take and take -- from us, from your __Saviors__  -- and expect that nothin’ bad is gonna happen. This is _us_  showin’ you you’re wrong. But you can make it right now, by stoppin’ this shit and workin’ with us to fix the world we’re left with. Don’t you know? This is just the _beginning.”_

“Of what?” Negan inquires, thick eyebrows down together, lips tucked down into a deep frown. There’s something almost thoughtful about him like this. Daryl can feel sweat begin to bead beneath the hair at the back of his neck.

“Of _everything,”_ Rick breathes.

His tone is so hopeful, so pleading… like how he was at the prison, imploring the Governor to just stop and think this through. And they all know how that ended. But maybe this could be different. Maybe this could be _good._

“We could… establish more safe zones,” Negan murmurs, gloved hand scratching at his jaw. “Food, supplies, construction, security -- with all our communities teaming up, we could change the whole fuckin’ game. I’ve had it wrong the whole time? Trying to protect my people, but _this_  is the way. Goddamn, I think you’re right.”

Daryl and Glenn look to each other, trying to keep their expressions straight even though their eyes say it all. Disbelief turning to hope, no matter how skeptical or naive. This doesn’t sound like Negan playing them. It sounds like he might actually believe.

“You know I’m right,” Rick replies smoothly. The hand not clutching his side gestures outward, to the trees, to the world around them. “United, we’re stronger. You see that. You _know ,_ now don’t you?”

“Yeah… Yeah, I think I do.”

“Good.”

It happens so quickly -- the hand at Rick’s side slipping lower and lower, so out of anyone’s focus that not even Daryl spots it ahead of time. Fingers grasp the hilt of a knife, arm swiping up towards Negan. Daryl’s throat closes in on itself, the image of Beth in Grady -- _I get it now_  -- jamming a pair of scissors into Dawn’s torso, earning a bullet through the brain for her troubles. It’s happening again, right in front of him, his brother in the crosshairs.

Rick’s blade slashes Negan’s throat in one outward motion, blood spurting out to taint his skin while Lucille clatters to the ground. Eyes wide with fear and panic and shock, Negan clutches at his throat, knees digging into the grass after his body tips forward.

But no gunshot rings out this time, not with Dwight spinning around to point his AK the the surrounding Saviors.

“It’s done!” Rick shouts, tone hard and final. “It’s over! We can save his life. We will, if you surrender, go home, find someone else to lead you. But you have to decide now or he’ll--”

Negan leaps up in an instant, throwing his body into Rick’s, slamming them both into the side of the bus.

“Rick!” Michonne yells at the same time Carl screeches, _“Dad!”_

Daryl pushes past Glenn to get closer, dropping his bow without a second thought in order to dig his hands into the back of Negan’s leather jacket in an attempt to haul his thrashing body off of Rick.

“Put your weapons down!” Dwight orders, but Daryl doesn’t check to see if anyone is aiming at him.

He lets out a grunt when he falls backwards, Negan’s heavy forming landing on top of him, elbow dropping into his stomach. He tries to hold onto the squirming, feeling as if he’s wrangling a damn pig or something while he tries to gather the breath that’s been stolen from him. But Negan manages to escape his grasp, jerking forward towards Michonne, who’s just made it to Rick’s side.

Out of nowhere, Paul knocks the man to the ground with a hard kick to the chest.

Daryl hadn’t even seen him follow Michonne, honestly. He’d just appeared, probably had been standing not far from Daryl’s back the whole time Rick and Negan had been conversing. He’s always there, always watching, always saving Daryl’s ass somehow.

Giving a quick glance to Negan’s form sprawled across the muddy grass, Paul leaves him alone to stride towards Daryl, offering a hand to help him up. Daryl clasps it and is pulled straight up and onto his feet without any aid from himself. Somehow it still surprises him, how much physical strength his little ninja actually possesses.

Sasha, Glenn, Maggie, Carl, Carol, and Tara have squeezed themselves through the gap of the bus to line up beside Rick and Michonne, joining Dwight in keeping their guns trained on the Saviors. Just in case. None of them seem to think about moving, however, especially not with Negan laying unconscious on the ground.

“Come on,” Michonne whispers. Her voice barely carries to Daryl’s ears, even as he stands only a few feet away. “Let’s get you to Carson--”

Rick hisses as she begins to move him, drawing attention to the knife jutting out of his thigh. Daryl had completely missed the fact that Negan had stabbed him.

“No-- No, get _him_  to Carson first. He’s bleedin’ out.”

“What the hell? Dad--!”

“Do it _now!”_

Daryl and Paul lock eyes, silently communicating how weary they are of Rick’s new idea -- perhaps Daryl a little more than Paul -- but neither of them says a word. Now’s not the time to question it.

Glenn reacts to Rick’s order first, pulling the strap of his firearm over his head and shoulders and then kneeling down to get ahold of Negan’s torso.

“Anyone gonna help me? _Anyone?”_

Daryl hesitates for a couple of seconds before grunts and decides to follow orders, bending down to pick up Negan’s legs in both of his hands. He’s heavier than Paul had been, which is saying quite a bit. He can feel the blood rushing to his face from the strain already, shoulder aching with more than just phantom pains. Come to think of it, his thigh is aching, as well. Too much exertion all in a row.

But he’s not about to rest this one out. No. Daryl’s going to see it through. For Denise and Abraham and Eugene, for Spencer and Olivia, Kal and Eduardo, Tobin and Bertie and Bruce; for every single life they’ve lost to this big headed fuck, and for every life that will no longer have to live in fear of him. This one’s for them. And whatever Rick has planned, Daryl knows it must be for the best for everyone.

* * *

 

Tobin’s passed. That’s what they find when they enter the infirmary with Negan’s lax body, Rick limping after them with Rick and Michonne on either side. Aaron had already made sure he wouldn’t turn, so he lies almost peacefully on the cot, pale face slack without pain or worry. Carol had left his side to enter the fray upon Negan’s arrival, but Francine had stayed the whole time, was still beside him as if waiting for him to awaken. Daryl knows what Paul had told him about Tobin trying to protect her. They all know that guilt too well.

The others are either asleep, like Scott, or awake like Eric, who is peering around the packed room with worry, shooing Aaron away from him in attempt to help vicariously through him. Aaron obliges and ends up helping Daryl and Glenn lift Negan up enough to get him settled so Harlan can look at him right away. Daryl doesn’t give a shit if he loves or dies; he and Glenn had gotten here like Rick had asked and now Daryl can wash his hands of the whole thing. He starts by turning his attention back over to Rick, watching as his brother sighs and allows Carl and Michonne to help him settle back into the cot he’d occupied earlier.

Daryl catches an earful of Rosita’s angry, hushed whispers; her refusal to help Doctor Carson save Negan’s life, not after he’d taken Abraham and Eugene and Spencer from her. So Alex reluctantly takes over, sending her to patch Rick’s leg up while he aids Carson in treating Negan’s slit throat. Daryl has to give the guy some credit for that, at least. If he had to actually help save that asshole’s life, he wouldn’t do it. Just like Rosita. Rick’s orders be damned.

Luckily, this leaves Daryl free to meet Paul by the door when he spots the younger man entering quietly. Daryl’s bow is hanging from his shoulder, a soaked cloth rubbing at his hands, wiping away the grime that had accumulated from him not wearing his gloves. Daryl can see that his own hands look terrible, caked with burgundy browns and blooming purple beneath, blue veins prominent beneath his rough skin. It doesn’t bother him, being dirty never has, so he refuses the rag when it’s offered. Wouldn’t want to ruin it, anyway.

“Dwight’s taking the rest of the Saviors back to Sanctuary,” Paul informs him, voice hushed enough to make Daryl lean in closer to hear the words properly. “I imagine he’ll wanna meet with Rick, Maggie, and Ezekiel in a few days, once things settle down and we’re sure that Negan won’t a problem. Is he--”

“Dunno. Don’t fuckin’ care. Either way, we won. He ain’t gonna be shit no more.”

Paul smirks wryly, rolling his eyes at Daryl’s comments.

“Well,” he sighs, “I hope you’re right. We just have to wait and see.”

“Carl, no.” Rick’s voice carries to the door from his cot in the far corner, the sharpness dulled by fatigue.

“You’re just gonna let him live?” Carl demands. “He _has_ to die.”

“Carl… where’s Judith?”

“With Grabriel inside Barrington,” the teenager answers dismissively. “Don’t change the subject! Why are we wasting time trying to save him? We’ve been wanting to kill him this whole time and-- and now what, you’re just gonna let him go?”

“No.” Daryl steps a little closer instinctively when Rick struggles to push himself up into an upright position. “He’s not goin’ anywhere. We’ve got a cell at Alexandria, remember? Didn’t understand what Morgan had in mind for it at first, but now I do. We don’t have to kill him,” Rick says, low and with conviction, eyes darting to those in his immediate vicinity. “That’s who we were, it’s not who we have to be. It’s not who we _are._ Not now. Everything we’ve done to get here, we’ve had to do, but not this. We have a _choice_. We can change, show people that we can do better, _be_ better. Better than Negan. Because we are.”

Rick’s speech is met with stony silence, eyes either trained on him or trained away. Daryl is of the latter variety, choosing to instead stare at the dirt marks on the usually pristine floor of the medical trailer. After a few ticks of silence that’s only broken by Carson and Alex murmuring to each other on the opposite end as they check up on their their patients, Rick sighs.

“Someone go get Glenn. I know he’ll back me up.”

Daryl’s gaze follows Michonne’s hand as it rises from her side to gently cover Rick’s atop his stomach. Her fingers curl around his, knuckles tight when she squeezes comfortingly.

“I’m with you,” she tells him. “We can do it this way. Our way. It’s better. It’ll _be_ better.”

Rick places his other hand over their twined grip, covering the back of her stained gloves, fingertips digging into the firmness of the support she’s offering her, that she’s _always_  offering him. And Daryl knows that she gets the same from him. They push against each other like waves, joining in on the tide and melding together with a compatible simplicity that suggests they were meant to be this way, and that they would no matter what.

Daryl hadn’t been blind to their interactions, the increase in trust and joy and intimacy; it hadn’t been a shock when it _did_  finally happen, but he’d never dwelled on it. Never actually thought the two of them shift into something beyond what they already were to each other. And yet, it had happened. Here they still were, stair-stepping their strength to build something powerful.

And they weren’t the only ones. Glenn and Maggie, creating a future for more than just themselves. Aaron and Eric, working together to fortify their community and civilization as a whole. Carol and Ezekiel, ruling their kingdom as two forces of nature hellbent on keeping the living _alive._ What Abraham had been to Sasha and Rosita, driving them to action with clear purpose; Denise’s hope and belief in Tara, Lori’s love and sacrifice for her children, Hershel and Beth’s faith, Dale and Tyreese’s sensibilities, Bob’s optimism, Eugene’s desired courage… The things they’ve all learned along the way are the things they will carry with them for the rest of their lives.

It’s when Daryl thinks of Paul -- how the younger man had sought him out, had allowed himself to be comforted and to offer comfort in return, allowed he and Daryl to draw on each others strength when they’d wrapped themselves around each other -- that he turns his head ever so slightly to take a peek at his ninja.

His neck begins to tingle with warmth when he realizes that Paul has been watching him the whole time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *there's comic dialogue present in this chapter, with the negan and rick stuff towards the end as well as rick speaking to carl and others about keeping negan alive to be better than him, and also kal trying to warn negan away*
> 
> Well, the war is pretty much over!! This should really be the last action-oriented chapter, at least to this extent. I had originally planned the story to be 10 chapters, but it's looking more like it might be 13 now. Still not sure yet. I will say tho that I recently finished writing chapter 9 and will be starting on 10 soon, so the delay in updates I mentioned last chapter might be implemented after this update or something. Not certain on that, either. But the comments were very encouraging and understanding about this, and I really appreciate it. Thank you so much.
> 
> I had written Daryl killing Fat Joey in one of the other chapters before 7x08 came out, but that scene was really important so I sort of remixed it and had Daryl do it to Simon instead. Freaking Simon.
> 
> Here's a tidbit: Father Gabriel was originally supposed to die in this chapter, but then I thought about it and I couldn't bring myself to do it. He's grown on me too much. So Tobin took his place. Not as impactful, but still... I didn't want to kill someone just for shock value (as twd sometimes does...). Ahem. Plus, fluff is the underlying factor of this fic because fluff is my favorite. 
> 
> I wasn't sure about having Paul break-down here and actually start crying, but I had been sort of building to it with Daryl noticing that he hasn't been as calm and cool these last few chapters. And Paul has never been part of something so large scale and hasn't really lost people to this degree, so it's probably a shock to him. The fact that he let his guard down with Daryl is a good sign (and not to be spoilery, but Daryl will do the same very soon).
> 
> I just want to say thank you for continuing to read this fic and thank you for leaving kudos and especially comments. Seeing what you guys have to say about these chapters is one of the best things ever for me. I like having your feedback. So know that it's always appreciated. :)
> 
> and as always, i'm terrible at checking my stuff over so there are probably mistakes still. sorry!


	9. Map On A Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But here we are and something about it  
> doesn't feel like an accident  
> We're all looking for something to adore  
> and how to survive the bending and breaking  
> I've walked on two legs since I was a child  
> but when did I realize that some ways out  
> past the horizon for thousands of miles  
> there are people like me, walking on legs like me?  
> Coming closer and farther away  
> Coming to me and from my embrace  
> Hoping good comes from good  
> and that good comes from bad anyway  
> Oh, please, don't make fun of me  
> with my heart of gold and my restless soul  
> Oh, please, don't make fun of me  
> this smile happens genuinely"
> 
> (map on a wall | lucy dacus)

The piles have grown again, cadavers stacked atop each other outside Hilltop’s mess of a barrier, undergoing the too-familiar process of burning. Daryl had done his part by helping many of the Kingdomer’s with this task before moving back inside the walls to catch the tail-end of a conversation between Maggie, Glenn, and Paul near the steps of Barrington.

“You buried Abraham and Eugene,” Glenn says quietly, though steely without any hint of the hesitation that Paul’s expression is showcasing.

“We did,” he agrees. “But we don’t have a lot of space inside the walls--”

“So we bury them outside.”

“It takes a lot longer than burning. Being out there in the open right now doesn’t seem like the best idea.”

Glenn shakes his head, shoulders hunching up in an imitation of a shrug. He’s either too tired too see it through or too agitated. Daryl figures either one is a safe bet.

“Then I’ll do it.”

“By yourself?” Maggie pipes up, raising a questioning brow at her husband.

She’s been mostly quiet during this exchange, however long it’s been going on for. Probably for a while; Daryl doesn’t really want to guess. He just knows this topic is one Glenn has been adamant about before.

“If I have to. Look, I don’t want anyone out there either, but it just… it feels wrong. Just getting rid of them like that. And I know you burn your dead here, but we don’t. We never have. Not when they’re one of us.”

“Jesus?” Maggie questions softly. One look at her from Paul has the younger man closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“No, I-- I get it. I know. We’ll bury them outside the walls, but maybe wait until morning? We can pile them into one of the buses for now. Going in and out for each one is gonna be a lot of work, but I’m sure you’re not the only one willing to do it.”

“Thank you.” Glenn drops a hand onto Paul’s shoulder, their gazes matched in earnestness. Daryl catches the way Maggie’s lip twitch at the interaction, eyes looking a little too watery from where Daryl stands. “I’m gonna get started.” Turning to Daryl with purpose, Glenn asks, “Will you help me?”

He’s not hiding his face by turning it anymore, losing that streak of self-consciousness he’d had after the iron. Glenn had rebounded quickly from that personal trauma, replacing it with determination and honor. The only person to stare at him anymore was Maggie, and that’s definitely not because of the scars marring half of his face.

“Yeah, I will.” Daryl nods at Glenn, fingers digging into the pocket of his vest absently. “Just need a few minutes.”

“Take your time,” Glenn instructs, so graciously that Daryl knows he truly means it.

Maggie touches his back as he leaves, letting her gaze linger on his retreating form for a handful of seconds. Then her attention is fully on Daryl, as is Paul’s, and he can’t even remember what he came over here for.

“Where’s Rick?” he decides to ask.

“Carl took him to one of the rooms upstairs. Tryin’ to get him some rest while we can.” Maggie’s arms cross tightly at her stomach, baseball cap shading most of her face from view. “I know he’s already talkin’ about headin’ back to Alexandria. Lot more damage there than here. But I think we should all finish up what we’ve been doin’ and then turn in for the night. I can do a headcount in the morning.”

“I’m starting on a list,” Paul adds, arms crossing in a mimic of Maggie. “We’re not doing too bad on food, thanks to what Ezekiel brought, but we’re getting pretty desperate for a lot of other things. Alex said our medical supplies really took a hit. Not to mention the state of Alexandria and the Kingdom… We’ll need building materials as soon as possible.”

His demeanor is more calm than it had been earlier, but he looks unusually haggard. He needs to eat, to rest -- Daryl needs those things too, really. It’s easy to forget that fighting for your life doesn’t ensure survival. You still need basic necessities. And hopefully with Negan out of commission, their focus can be put to better use.

“We’ll think of somethin’ tomorrow,” Maggie concludes. She looks too pale, too weary, but she’s still standing tall. “That place you mentioned before… We can try for it now, since things might actually be able to settle. Maybe make it for a raid?”

“Maybe. We can check beyond it, too--”

“Ain’t gonna do us any good talkin’ ‘bout that now,” Daryl finally interrupts. His back is really starting to ache from all the bending he’s been doing. “Finish up and turn in for the night, like you said. Got all day tomorrow to start things up again. We got eyes on Negan and Gregory, right?”

“We do.” Daryl’s gaze darts to Paul, who’s tucking hair behind his ears. “I think Alex strapped Negan down to one of the gurneys in the medical trailer. He was still out, last I checked, but alive. As for Gregory…”

Paul trails off, dropping his gaze to the dusty boots still holding him upright somehow. Eduardo had been watching him, before he retook his position on the wall, wanting to have Kal’s back. And now the two of them were both gone, smashed beneath a wall and torn to shreds. Nothing to even really bury.

“Dante’s got his eye on him.” It’s Maggie’s voice that finishes answering Daryl’s question. “Didn’t even try escapin’. Probably locked himself up in the closet. I don’t even wanna think about how to deal with him.”

“Have Rick take him back, too. Give Negan a cellmate.”

It’s Paul who cracks a bit of a smile at Daryl’s dark humor, mostly because he knows it’s not a viable option. They’ll have to build their own cell here, but what can they do with him until then? None of them have ever successfully kept someone prisoner before… It always ends up backfiring whenever they try. Despite his earlier optimism about all things regarding Negan, Daryl doesn’t really believe that keeping a loud-mouth shit like Gregory tied up inside their walls is going to work in their favor.

But it’s not up to him, what Rick does with Negan or what Maggie does with Gregory, and he’s sure as hell glad for that. He’s having a hard enough time swallowing the fact that they get to keep living as it is.

“Got people still out burnin’.” Daryl’s fingers scratch at his oily hair, not even attempting to peel his bangs from the renewed sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. “Gonna help Glenn with the rest. Got anythin’ else?”

“No, not yet.” Maggie squints beneath the brim of her cap, gaze trailing steadily across the messy grounds of her home, taking in every single person as they move with purpose, no matter how slow. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. All of us. See what happens next. Lotta people are gonna need a lotta of things.”

“We’ll be okay,” Paul reassures. When his hand grips her arm gently, she pats it appreciatively.

She sounds more confident than she looks when she says: “We will.”

Daryl doesn’t linger long after. He gives the two a nod -- and perhaps allows himself to stare just a little bit longer than strictly necessary at Paul’s dirt-smudged face -- and steps away, lighting up a cigarette as he strides over to help Glenn, Tara, and several others begin to carefully drag their lost allies into one of the buses for later transport.

It’s slow work, not something he prefers to do; having to look down at blank faced, forever unmovable, never to smile of frown or even twitch again. Nothing left of them but memories and bodies that will eventually decay back into dirt.

Daryl breezes through three cigarettes while working in tandem with Glenn. Up, down, up, down, up, down the steps of the bus. He doesn’t stop until the inky sky is spotted with dull dots of light. By then, every stilled face is a horror imprinted into the depths of his mind.

* * *

 

The water is warm, enough to help relax his tensed and aching muscles. Droplets cling to his hair, matting it further with wetness, gliding over his grimy skin in swift and crooked patterns.

Daryl sits in the cramped space of the shower stall at the back of Paul’s trailer. Murky water swirls around the drain he can see from between where his knees rest, slightly parted and pressed to his chest. His arms are wrapped around his legs, fingers squeezing tight together, locking the grip, keeping those legs from flopping outward. Keeping himself balled tight.

He’s been in here ten minutes now, dropping himself to the floor of the bath as soon as he’d turned the knob for the water to switch on with a jolt of coldness. The glass door had been shut after, clumsily with one hand while the other clutched at his own trembling thighs. The glass is fogged over now, blurring the sight of the rest of the confined space into nothing but cloudy outlines.

He’d left his bow, slingshot, knife, and gun strewn about outside the door; on the big round table, on the couch with the crumpled blanket and unused pillow, on the floor beneath the window like the night before. He hadn’t even asked Paul if he could return to use the shower, had just done so, as if the tiny trailer was as much his home now as it was Paul’s. One night sleeping slumped over on the couch had seemed far more comfortable than all the times he’d wandered around the big houses of Alexandria, uncertain of where he should park himself for even just a few hours. One night here and things had felt calm where he knew they were hectic, _right_  even in the face of unfamiliarity. One night turning into two without question. Daryl knew Paul would let him stay, there was no question, but he didn’t know if Paul _wanted_  him to.

It was something to think about later. For now, his mind goes static.

The scar on his shoulder itches, the one on his thigh burns, his back is just numb. The little circles on the hand, crinkled and discolored, stare at him like tormented eyes. A mirror of everything and everyone. A mirror of himself.

It’s over. Negan’s strapped down, guarded and injured and left without his precious Lucille. Dwight’s got the rest of the Savior’s under control back at Sanctuary, awaiting Rick and Maggie and Ezekiel’s next order or move. It’s _over_  and Daryl should be relieved, he should be grateful. But he isn’t. Those emotions never come, are stricken down by grief, blindsided by distress. It’s over, but it never really is. Things move on, but you never really forget. And maybe, not for the first time, he wishes he could.

Face twisting, sinuses burning, chest stuttering with shaky breaths he can’t catch hold of. Daryl cries like Paul had done earlier, when he’d leaned on Daryl for support; cries like Francine and Carol had done as they draped a sheet over Tobin’s body; cries like Rosita had for Eugene, like Sasha had for Abraham when this whole thing came to a head in that clearing. For so many others -- he could cry over them all. Maybe he does now. Maybe it’s a release, so sudden and overbearing that he’s not sure what to do with it.

_You got yourself here, little brother. Don’t go all pansy on me now. The war’s over, but the fight ain’t. You know it never is. You got some left in you or not?_

Merle… Shit, if he doesn’t miss that son of a bitch. He’d tell him to get up if he could see Daryl now, to stop his belly aching. Shut up, man up, give ‘em hell. Maybe not things Daryl wants or needs to hear, but they’d be more effective than the silence settling between the hissing of the faucet above his head.

You have to let yourself feel. You have to. And that might just be the scariest obstacle of his whole entire life, especially when that dam breaks and he can no longer stay stagnant.

Daryl sniffles as he tilts his head back against the tiles, the blackness behind his eyelids marred with white lightning. The ringing in his ears blocks out the sounds of his shallow breathing. But he’s alright, he knows he is even as tears slip down his cheeks to mingle with the droplets washing the remnants of the day’s won-war off of his face.

Every inch of his insides feels _awful._ Stinging, churning, yearning, heavy and pained. He’s swallowed stones of hard truths that have sunk to the bottom of his gut, bit his tongue until it swelled like a blood-filled balloon, ignored his heart for so long that he can’t tell if it’s dying or just broken.

 _This group is broken._ No, not anymore. They’ve never been more whole. It’s just Daryl this time, full circle back to the start. Not alone, but lonely. He can’t be fixed… but _that_  can _ _.__ That loneliness. That choice. _It can, it can, it can._

He twists his head until his nose and mouth can press against his shoulder, using the wet skin there to wipe away the snot, his own overly scruffy chin scraping across smoothness that doesn’t match how blemished and marked the rest of him is.

There’s a sound from behind the door that’s barely audible, something that could be quiet knocking. He sucks in a deep breath when he hears that voice.

“Daryl? You doing okay?”

He almost snorts at that, Paul sounding like Daryl’s a child he’s worried might drown in the tub if left unattended for a second too long. He’s been in here probably going on twenty minutes now, maybe more, and he’s not really sure that worry is entirely unwarranted by this point.

Seconds pass with only the whooshing water and gurgling drain left as an answer, which apparently doesn’t satisfy Paul in the slightest.

“Daryl,” he says again. It’s not a question this time. Daryl still doesn't bother answering, he does something stupid instead.

“Door’s open.”

He doesn’t know if he even said it loud enough, it would probably be best if he hadn’t, but no. Of course Paul heard his words, he seems to always hear Daryl, even when the world wants to drown him out.

Daryl holds his breath, squinting through the fog to see the door open, carefully and slowly, with Paul coming into view. The younger man steps inside, but just barely, leaning himself against the frame of the door with his arms crossed snugly against his chest.

Daryl’s naked, sitting on the floor of the shower in Paul’s trailer with Paul staring at him from the door, only a pane of blurry glass blocking them from being able to see one another without obstruction.

He’s never been comfortable with nakedness, definitely not in front of others. Not just because of the scars on his back, the ones he tried so hard to hide away from even himself despite the fact that they would always be a deeper part of his make-up, but because of the vulnerability such an act afforded. He’d been forced at Sanctuary to sit without clothes until he deserved them, but he’d learned to stand tall with his head up, uncaring of what the Saviors saw of him. Because they didn’t see _him_. Not who he was, not who he is, and so suddenly being naked hadn’t made him feel that same weakness. The walls around his heart and mind had remained impenetrable, his snarls as defiant as they had ever been before.

But it _is_  different now. He’s not being forced. Nakedness of the body could mean nakedness of the soul. With Paul -- who __could__  see him, who could know him -- it probably did. There was no fight to it because Daryl didn’t want there to be. The could share vulnerability together, had been for a while now, and the could do it without fear and… and how _freeing_  was that? How terrifyingly _easy?_

“Do you need anything?” Paul questions, probably thinking that asking Daryl if he’s okay again would just be redundant given the sight in front of him.

“No.”

It’s a lie -- at least it feels like one, because he __might__  need something, he just has no clue as to what it is.

“Okay…”

That one word sounds as reluctant as his movements appear, his feet carrying him silently a few steps forward, bending at the waist to swiftly grab Daryl’s dirtied clothes. He only pauses when Daryl’s gruff voice filters through the air.

“You really think it’s done?” he wonders aloud. “This whole Negan thing. Rick ain’t gonna kill him, so-- d’you think…”

“I don’t know,” Paul answers soberly, not even attempting to fill Daryl’s mind with sweetened bullshit. Neither of them need that here or now. “I don’t know what to think about it, honestly. But what matters to me right now is that we made it. We can rebuild the walls, mourn the people we lost… We’re safe enough to do both. That has to mean something, right?”

Absently, Daryl unlocks his fingers from one another, the ache rushing in with the renewed circulation, and slaps his hand out to touch the door, swiping through the fog to create a clear little window that he can look at Paul through.

“Yeah, but how long’ll that last?”

Not long, in Daryl’s experience. Peace is as fleeting as life. And just as important, just as sought after, just as worth fighting for. No matter what, Daryl always will. He just wishes he could _know_  something. Paul doesn’t have any answers, either. They’re both just drifting in this strange sense of in-between.

“I wish I could say,” Paul murmurs, a rather short sigh following his words. Not exasperation at Daryl, but at _himself._ “I wish I could tell you forever.” A humorless hum. “Cross your fingers.”

Daryl shrugs half-heartedly, turning his head to face the ceiling of the stall once more.

“Might as well,” he mumbles.

He’s tempted to do exactly as Paul said, just to see what happens. Get a head start on the good luck that might have saved their asses today. Law of averages and shit. He hopes like hell it’s still in their favor.

“I’ve never had answers for people, Daryl. Not really. That’s one of the reasons I wouldn’t make a good leader, why Maggie does. I just… I try to find solutions, my own way, and that hasn’t changed. It won’t.”

“What’re you gonna do then?”

Daryl’s a little startled when the glass door slides open, cold air rushing in to attack his heat-reddened skin. He turns his head towards Paul, knees dropping to allow his legs to fully extend in reflex, body ready to coil into a lunge a second before his brain eases his taut muscles into relaxing again.

Paul is crouching down by the edge of the stall’s tub walls, hand still clasping the side of the door, fingertips making marks in the condensation. He stares at Daryl with eyes that look sad and faithful, mouth turned down into a sliver of a frown. He’s still a frazzled mess from earlier, clothes rumpled and stained, face smeared with browns and blacks and reds, a bloom of purple disappearing into the dark beard covering his jaw. The thick hair of his head is like a damn bird’s nest with how tangled it’s gotten. Just looking at Paul makes Daryl want to start crying again, the reality of his presence, the aching beauty and and simple existence of him. As a person, as a friend, as family. As--

 _“We--”_ Paul stresses, gaze magnetizing Daryl’s, “are gonna keep going forward. Make the new world something we might actually _want_ to live in. And you’re still here, so it’s already a better place.”

Even through the bangs clinging to his face, Daryl can see a light flush possess Paul’s cheeks and nose, a reaction not caused from the lingering steam around them.

 _We._ Daryl likes the sound of that. He really does.

He lets his eyelids close, head still turned to face Paul. No guard, no walls, just him -- just _them_  -- in their own little bubble, swept away from the chaos. He’s so tired, but right now his insides feel wide awake, buzzing with anticipation for those few inches between them to come together somehow.

And Paul has solutions, indeed, because he reaches over as if Daryl’s thoughts had been telegraphed into his own and begins to delicately pluck strands of soaked hair from Daryl’s face, tucking them away with the rest clinging to the top of his head. There’s barely any pressure, but the touch feels heavy anyhow, laden with purpose and significance, warmth and affection. Daryl wants to draw it all into himself and never release it.

Nails lightly scrape against his scalp, palms sliding around his jaw to pull him forward and the tilt his head back, away from the tile. Then the fingers of one hand work through his hair, catching on knots and combing through with no sense of urgency.

Daryl peeks when he feels Paul reach across him, hears a clattering of bottles on the indented shelf to his left. The younger man is on his knees now, the short hairs framing his cheekbones and jawline becoming limp as mist from the spray surrounds him. Streams of water crawl down his bare forearms, dampening his rolled up sleeves, the fabric stretched across his thighs, puddling onto the floor outside of the tub. But he keeps on, stroking the crown of Daryl’s head with sudsy hands, dragging fingers down to the tips hanging and curling around his neck and shoulders.

It occurs to him then, as if the act had been too unusual to comprehend until this moment, that Paul is washing his hair for him. Out of nowhere. Just because. To help in the most trivial way possible, turning it into the most meaningful.

Daryl’s eyelids begin to droop like he’s some kind of dog getting scratched behind the ears, but he manages slow blinks to keep his vision aligned with Paul’s face, the little ninja’s expression attentive, completely focused on the task at hand. He flickers his gaze to Daryl’s every few seconds, just to _look_  as he always does, to let him know that he’s here as much as Daryl is, if his purposeful touch isn’t enough of an indicator. The two combined seems like a little too much, but Daryl knows without a doubt that he would take even more of the younger man’s attention if given the chance.

Paul’s shirt is more wet than dry now, the closer he bends towards Daryl. His own hair beginning to darken with the weight of the water seeping into its softness. There’s probably a lake down around his knees that he’s ignoring.

Daryl’s throat works roughly around a swallow, slippery lips parting for words he hasn’t entirely thought through.

“Just get in.”

It’s not said with irritation and it isn’t a demand; it isn’t laced with the uncertainty that Daryl feels fluttering in his stomach, rivaling the tingling excitement bouncing around his chest. Paul’s hands halt their movements, simply resting, his head cocking as he looks at Daryl with confusion, creases between his brows showing prominently.

“What?”

“Makin’ a mess all over,” Daryl says gruffly, lowering his gaze to his bare thighs. “Might as well get in already.”

It sounds so unlike him, though it’s definitely his voice that spoke those perplexing words. Not _wrong,_ just different and new… And new doesn’t mean bad. Not always. In fact, it never has wherever Paul was concerned. So he won’t take it back -- the request or suggestion or whatever it exactly is -- even though he could without consequence. He’ll sit and wait, finding enough courage to look back up at Paul’s wondrous expression, into the waiting depths of blue and green, until one of them reacts.

Whatever Paul sees in Daryl, he understands. He pushes up from the short wall between them, soapy fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, leg kicking out to shut the door separating the bathroom from the rest of the trailer to click into the jamb. Daryl stays seated in his hunched position, hands pressing to the smooth floor between his thighs, watching Paul from the corner of his eyes while trying to keep his breaths in an even flow.

He pushes up onto wobbly legs after a moment, grimacing at the soreness pin-balling through his limbs. He’s getting too old for this shit, but maybe he should be thankful for _that._ Aging. Not many people get to do that anymore. Forty-something isn’t bad… it’s no thirty-whatever, like what Daryl assumes Paul must be; he doesn’t want to care enough to ask, probably because he doesn’t want to answer in return. They can just exist as they are and be more than alright.

Paul drops his shirt to join Daryl’s pile of clothing on the floor, torso fully bared as he bends to unlace and pull his boots off. Daryl shuffles the farthest corner of the barely rectangular stall, turning away on instinct when the younger man’s cargo pants get kicked away.

He’s stepping in to join Daryl seconds later. There’s such little space between them, their shoulders end up bumping as he turns to slide the glass door closed. And Paul’s lengthy hair finally succumbs to the full-force of the spray now above his head, strands falling forward to block his face from view.

The first thing Daryl really notices is that Paul isn’t fully undressed. He’s got dark briefs on still, clinging like a second skin, a form of modesty probably more-so for Daryl’s sake than Paul’s own. The second thing Daryl notices is Paul’s build, unhindered by his usual roomy garb. It’s not really a surprise, he’d looked lean and he _is_  lean, with a little more muscle definition than Daryl had imagined. Not that he _had_  imagined, just -- He supposes it should have been a given, anyway, what with how much the guy could do physically. Hard angles and ridges, sinewy, rounded out with soft-looking pale flesh. There was power weaved through every inch of him, body and soul.

The little details come last, like the tufts of dark hair high on his chest, the thicker trail starting beneath his belly button and disappearing into the band of his underwear, the long but faint scar not so far above it, most likely a result of some kind of slash or gash. Paul’s got stories that Daryl would like to hear sometime, simply just to know them.

It’s natural that their eyes meet at the same time, flickering up from where they had both been studying each other tentatively. The back of Daryl’s neck feels a little hot at the idea that Paul had been looking at him just as thoroughly, truly inquisitive of the sight of Daryl in such an unusual scene.

All of the younger man’s body, from what Daryl can see, is turning a light shade of pink in contrast, a little splotchy from the water drenching his skin, but it’s his face that looks red again, left cheek hollowing with a nervous turn of his mouth. His hair’s slicked back, tucked behind his slightly-protruding and even redder ears. Daryl might smile a little bit; the only reason he thinks so is because Paul’s expression shifts, reassured, and his own smile looks like a reply.

“Let me finish,” Paul whispers.

He holds his hands out to Daryl, palm forward and fingers splayed in a placating manner until he deems that it’s safe enough to grip Daryl’s shoulders. He puts a little pressure, a suggestion that Daryl turn to face the wall, but… that would mean having his back on full display to Paul. Every inch of a past he doesn’t want to talk about, doesn’t even want to __think__ about right now, becoming the centerpiece between them.

When Daryl fails to move, Paul ducks his head down to catch his attention.

“No?”

He bites on a nail that’s barely even there, scratching as his teeth. When Paul’s hands retract from his shoulders, he turns himself around.

Daryl steels himself for the questions, air stuck in his chest as he waits for something he might try to ignore.

He doesn’t feel anything for a tick too long, doesn’t hear Paul speak or breathe. He glares at the wall, vision crossing the longer he stares at a chip in the tile, everything an off-white around him. Paul’s inspecting, that much is obvious without Daryl having to witness it head on. Studying every bumpy, red, criss-crossed line more in-depth than Daryl ever has. And he holds his breath until his lungs beg for him not to.

Hands returning to his hair brings him back out of his haze, the slight tug and rub of even more shampoo spreading all across his head causing his shoulders to drop away from his ears. Maybe it’s a little wasteful, but not unwelcome. Far from it. The tingles pricking over him in waves has him shivering in what he might believe to be satisfaction.

“Are these demons?” Paul wonders.

Daryl feels one of those steady hands leave the thick of his hair, slender fingers ghosting across a spot up high on his back, where dark ink stains the skin near his shoulder and below, away from the angry welts. He wasn’t expecting that.

“Yeah.”

“Does it mean anything in particular?”

“Uh… not really. Just-- One for me, one for Merle. He got ‘em, too. Had ‘em.”

It’s been a long time since he thought about that day, thought about _any_  of those days. Back with Merle, before the problems of the world stacked atop all of his own, squashing them down to insignificance but never erasing them completely. They’d done some really stupid shit -- Merle for his own devices, Daryl usually to try and compete with them, mimic to make proud -- but the tattoos were never bad ideas. Daryl had always liked them, liked the process even more. The pain wasn’t intentional or malicious, never there to hurt him purposefully, never made him cry. And the final result was always just as permanent as a scar, but personally deliberate, something that Daryl __chose__  to have displayed on his skin, something he could look at with admiration rather than disgust.

He’d gotten the demons with his brother, two on each body to represent themselves as a pair. They could only count on each other; that was practically a mantra growing up, Merle’s obsession with belittling Daryl perhaps something he needed more for himself than anything else, in hindsight. Maybe he needed to remind Daryl that he’d be the only one to ever love him so that Daryl wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t disappear like everyone else in their lives. All they had, for so long, was each other. The demons had meant to represent that; The Dixon Brothers, a couple of redneck trash assholes who caused havoc wherever they went. What better way to immortalize themselves than on their own bodies?

“You have something like it here, too, right?”

Paul’s voice is closer to his ear, the fingertips that had been tracing the pictures on his back now roving down his bicep, slipping against the ticklish underside to tap at the inked shape that usually remains mostly hidden.

Swallowing becomes a little harder.

“Kinda. That one’s a devil.”

“Oh?”

Daryl shrugs, lifting the arm away from the side of his chest to get a better look. Paul’s fingers seem to curl into the rigid flesh-over-muscle, hanging on rather than dropping away.

“Jess picked it. My uncle. Didn’t ask why he wanted it. Didn’t care. Merle was… locked up, I think. My dad was probly gettin’ wasted somewhere. Went out huntin’ with Jess for a while, guess he thought we was bondin’ or whatever. Hung ‘round him a lot after that, ‘til all this started.”

 _Til he got bit._ He’d been a good man, a better one than all three Dixon’s combined. That probably had to do with the fact that he wasn’t actually one of them.

Daryl inhales sharply through his nose when Paul’s hand slides purposefully down his arm. Facing away from the younger man’s undoubtedly open and honest expression has made this whole _thing_  a lot easier, but Daryl’s heart still begins to putter restlessly from behind his rib cage. He’s soothed a little by the thumb caressing up from the drawn heart on his wrist to the speck of a star on his hand.

“Why you wanna know all this?” Daryl murmurs, chin tucking to his chest, body flushing with warmth when Paul’s fingers slide between his own.

“I’m curious, for one thing. And… I like hearing what you have to say.”

The only response Daryl can think to deliver is a simple hum. It’s a step up from a grunt, at least.

“Hey, turn around--”

Paul starts to turn Daryl in the small stall, maneuvering their bodies in an awkward shuffle to press Daryl back beneath the spray where he first started. Paul’s hand pulls away from Daryl’s too soon for his liking, but it serves a purpose; to allow Paul to cup Daryl’s scruffy jaw.

Thumbs tilt Daryl’s chin up, palms sliding to cover Daryl’s ear as water rinses away soap. Muffled _swooshing_  fills his head space, eyes shut and lips parted with the stretch of his neck. It feels purifying, somehow. That same cleansing he’d thought of earlier, happening because Paul is helping it to.

Those hands move away from his ears to comb through the hair at Daryl’s nape. When he can hear properly again, he begins to speak.

“The heart’s for my mom. Star’s just somethin’ I asked for. Merle had a buddy who owed him for some coke. Didn’t have nothin’ to give, but Merle said they’d call it square if he did some work on this girl he’d been seein’. Think he was high, too. Merle never took shit for money otherwise.” Daryl wipes some water from his eyes, licking some from his bottom lip. Paul’s soothing fingers continue to brush from root to tip. “I was a couple years older than Carl… Wanted one, too. I liked constellations, y’know? Spent a lotta time out in the woods at night, liked lookin’ at the sky, learnin’ what the shapes were. So I wanted to ask him for Sagittarius--”

“The archer?” Paul’s mouth is quirked with a smirk, lines around his eyes showing with such a genuine smile. “That’s cute.”

Daryl huffs, feeling a flare-up in his cheeks.

“Ain’t nothin’ _cute_  about it.”

“Okay, Daryl.” Paul rolls his eyes, smirk still in place. “It’s very badass.”

“Woulda been,” he grumbles. “Figured he wouldn’t know what the fuck I was talkin’ ‘bout, so I just said ‘gimme a star’ and that’s what I got.”

They’re silent again, peering at each other, blinking away the misty haze and fog. The water’s cooling now, but not enough to rush them out, just enough to let them know that this, too, will end. So they better make the most of it while they can.

Daryl takes the initiative this time. He grabs the lumpy bar of soap from the shelf, rubbing it against his palm and fingers until he works up a lather. He smears it across Paul’s face a bit clumsily, the quake in his forearms infinitesimal compared to what he thought it would be, touching Paul’s face like this. His teeth scrape against his lip while he continues to clean the stains from Paul’s soft skin, rubbing the pads of his thumbs diligently over cheek and brow bones.

One of Paul’s eyes shut tight, the other locked on Daryl, and his mouth twists crookedly to show his teeth. It’s a dumb expression, silly, a grin so lighthearted that Daryl’s chest begins to suffuse with joy.

“What about this one?”

The younger man continues his line of questioning, patting the scrawled word over Daryl’s heart with the tip of his middle finger.

“Grandad,” is all he supplies.

There isn’t much to say about it, really. He’d met the man not even a handful of times. The most vivid of his memories had been the week his mom had taken the two of them to stay at the old man’s house at the edge of the city limits. The place had been a ranch at one point but stood barren by the time Daryl was still a single digit to the world.

He’d had beady little eyes and a grimace blackened by missing teeth. But he’d been alright, maybe even a little nice, offering Daryl a musty old teddy bear and a bunch of colored markers to go play with, as if they were magical toys all on their own. But hell, Daryl hadn’t known any better, and he swears he can remember going out in front of the house to color on the chipped wood of the rickety porch steps while his mom shouted from inside. He didn’t get the tattoo until decades later, after he’d driven by the boarded up house on a whim, surprised it hadn’t been condemned yet. The colors on the railing of the porch steps were terribly faded, but if you looked close enough, you could see the shift in pigments.

It hadn’t been until then, either, that he really understand the fact that his grandad had been offering them a place to live. But back to the trailer they’d gone anyway, back to his dad. Mom hadn’t lasted too much longer after that.

He doesn’t need to explain this to Paul. There’s no reason, other than trying to garner sympathy, and Daryl’s never wanted anything of that sort. But maybe some day it wouldn’t be so bad to say it out loud. Maybe some day, sharing this part of himself could be as instinctive as blinking.

His stomach tightens and quakes at the sudden brush against his thigh, breath hitching between chest and throat. For some reason, Daryl’s mind processes Paul’s expression as potentially challenging, a glint of mischief returning for only a flash. He pulls his hand away as fast as it came, however, succeeding in having gotten Daryl’s attention on the last tattoo decorating his body: a snake on his thigh.

“Nothin’ to say ‘bout that, ‘cept it was the last one I got. Liked the way it looked.”

Daryl’s hands have roamed from Paul’s face to his neck then back up again, settling and sinking in at the nape. Paul’s chest rises a little too quickly, betraying his otherwise calm demeanor, allowing Daryl to see that there might be some sort of affect going on here for him, too. For the both of them. It’s all so overtly intimate that half of Daryl thinks it might be nothing more than a fever dream. But then he remembers how this all started and he knows this is entirely _real._

“Is, um, was the biblical theme on purpose?” Daryl’s brows furrow questioningly, prompting Paul to elaborate. “Demons, devil, snake… Just a coincidence?”

“I guess. Never thought much about it.”

Not until now, anyway. With a guy who calls himself Jesus tracing over his unintentionally bible-themed tattoos. The world was fucking funny sometimes.

Paul nods and leans a little closer to Daryl, out of the water falling continuously over his frame. One of his arms wraps around Daryl just enough touch the bare area around his uninjured, unmarked shoulder.

“You’ll have to let me draw a wing here, next time I find a marker.” Curves and points outline blankly over his skin, blunt fingernails leaving no trail aside from raised flesh in their wake. “You’ve got a couple from the demons, but it’s not the same thing, and… I’d like to see it. At least once.”

“Dunno why you-- why--” He can’t get the words out, is too riled or too flustered or too __something__ to fully try. He doesn’t know what Paul’s deal is about this whole _angel_ thing, but it’s starting to feel less like a joke and a tease, and more like actual endearment.

“I think you know _why, _”__  Paul murmurs. It’s even more mysterious than Daryl’s unfinished question, an answer to a thousand things. Cryptic and enticing.

_I think you know I care about you._

It’s more than that.

“Paul.”

No open-end, no question mark. Just a word -- full stop, full intent, full emotion.

“I’m here,” he says, almost like what Daryl had told him out in front Denise’s old house. _M’here. For you._ For each other. It’s a mutually exclusive promise. Or a pact. “Okay? We both are.”

There will come a time when Daryl will seat down and say _tell me everything,_ where he’ll look at Paul and wait for him to say his piece, explain his past or what he wants for the future. What they were doesn’t matter anymore, not outside the skills they’ve forged, but Daryl is interested nonetheless; in his likes an dislikes, in his deepest thoughts and most secret desires, in his strange and inspiring outlook on the lives they lead. If they can get to it, they will.

But for now…

Daryl grabs the bottle of shampoo and squirts an excessive amount onto the top of Paul’s, making the younger man chuckle and reach up to distribute it properly. When it foams up enough, Daryl swipes a handful of suds and clumps it into the beard on Paul’s chin, turning the dark hair white. The little ninja laughs for real this time, smacking Daryl’s hands away, though he doesn’t complain when they return to gather the lengthy strands at the back of his neck, twisting and tugging until he can make a soapy knot resembling the messy buns he’s seen Paul create.

There’s a lightness to him that Paul brings out, beaming bright enough to decimate that earlier despair into nothing but dust. And in its place, there’s hope. Maybe not for long, but for now, even if just for this very moment. _Hope_ , shining through Paul’s round eyes, settling inside of Daryl’s chest to form a protective cage around his fragile heart. Strength he can build from.

That’s all he needs, for now. Just this to end the night, setting the tone for the new dawn headed their way.

* * *

 

Being spread out across the couch during the night was far more comfortable than falling asleep upright against the cushions. It was a little cramped, but Daryl’s neck and back feel a lot better for the time being, and he’s slept on far worse besides. He would have stayed a little longer, bunched up beneath the blanket with his face buried in a pillow, if he hadn’t known exactly how much there was to do around Hilltop. Negan might not be running the show anymore, but that didn’t mean they suddenly had all the time in the world.

And anyway, laying on the couch while awake meant that Daryl could see the bed pressed against the adjacent wall in the opposite corner, with Paul sprawled out across the narrow mattress. His hair is fanned out around him, reminding Daryl of how it looked wet and soapy, his own fingers tangled in the length. Reminding Daryl of how it felt to be on the opposite end, as well; nimble fingertips not just combing across his head, but dancing across his skin, cautious but deliberate, too inquisitive to hold back.

It hadn’t been a dream, although part of him still pushes to believe it had been. Not a hallucination, either. Daryl had been gutsy enough to tell Paul to join him, not just in the shower, but in a moment of uncommon reflection, a moment of defenselessness, and yet… not _powerlessness_. Paul made him feel strong enough to seek something out, strong enough to open up and branch out and share; words, touches, space, emotion. And the only thing that was troubling was how much the whole thing __wasn’t__.

Daryl pushes up from the couch and trudges to the bathroom, slipping inside with as little noise as possible. They’d had to wipe up the lake splashing across the floor after getting dressed, hanging the towels outside in the cooling night air with hopes that they wouldn’t scatter too far without clothing pins once they dried. He should probably bring them in before he does anything else, but his eyes feel puffy and the acrid taste of morning fills his mouth, and water can help both of those things. Maybe a little toothpaste, too.

Once he’s finished he drifts back into the main area, slipping his vest onto his shoulders grabbing his knife from the table to press into its sheath on his hip, he leaves his bow settled beneath the window. Paul is still soundly asleep, not having moved an inch, and so Daryl decides not to wake him. He doubts that Dwight will be leading a sudden charge, having become an ally to them… or something.

Daryl sighs to himself, rubbing at the sparse hair on his chin. The guy had done alright for them; helping with Daryl’s escape, turning his back on Negan to stand with the other communities, picking up the responsibility of leadership for Sanctuary and the remaining Saviors. Next time they see each other, he’ll have to thank him properly. But whatever the case, Daryl is sure that nothing monumental will happen while Paul is conked out, so he lets him be.

It’s bright out for such an early hour, the suns yellowed rays illuminating the grounds and the people of Hilltop, rather symbolic for what should be yet another new beginning. The wind is just as present, chilling skin and rustling leaves. Daryl reaches up to pull the flapping towels away from where they hang against the side of the trailer, held to the roof by rocks. They’re dry, stiff, and he bundles them up into his arms and enters the trailer once more to quietly lay them across the blanketed couch.

“Daryl?”

Paul murmurs his name so low and groggily that Daryl wonders if he’s barely half awake, head raised off the pillow but eyes still unopened. Daryl snorts.

“Yeah, s’me. Go back to sleep.”

Paul grumbles something that’s meant to be a reply but only ends up sounds like a bunch of incoherent groans. Paul makes no movements, other than dropping his head back down to the pillow. Daryl figures he won’t stay put for long once his mind catches up with him, but if he ends up falling asleep again then he could get a few more minutes of rest.

Daryl shuts the door tightly behind himself before hopping off the two measly steps, raising a hand to block his face from the bright light as he stomps across the grass idly.

People are already milling about, set in their tasks. Tending to animals and crops as they had every day before Negan’s war knocked down their gate, inspecting the pieces of the walls that had fallen, taking watch atop the buses or carrying baskets towards Barrington House.

Earl is at his stall, nothing more than some stitches on his face and a bandage on his bicep telling of the fight he’d been apart of, and he nods to Daryl when they spot each other. Daryl nods back, contemplating heading over just to see how he’s doing, to ask if he can help, but movement from the medical trailer behind catches his attention next.

Tara exits first with Aaron behind her, a smile small on his face as her mouth moves quickly. They’re in good spirits, it seems, which Daryl takes as a good sign that Eric is continuing to recover nicely. The thoughts reminds him that he should check up on Rick, as well, maybe try to find Carol--

“Dixon!”

They begin to pick up their pace when he acknowledges them, so he strides a little closer to meet them more quickly.

“Hey. Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Aaron assures. “Negan’s awake, but he seems pretty subdued. He’s still strapped down. Harlan’s tending to him while Rosita keeps an eye on Eric and the others.”

“But duty calls,” Tara interjects. “Or food, in this case. We’re on our way to Barrington. Gotta help set up the dining room… You should come with.”

“Set it up for what?”

“We heard Wes, Carol, and quite a few others were trying to make some kind of a meal for us,” Aaron supplies. Daryl digs into his pockets to fiddles with his pack of cigarettes as Aaron continues. “Part celebration, part revitalization, I guess. We could all use the added energy.”

“And I heard Maggie talking about wanting to hold a meeting with Rick and Ezekiel? Like an update. The dining room’s gonna need a lot of preparation if we’re trying to get everyone seated inside somehow. Clown car style. So, you in?”

Daryl shrugs at Tara, though they all know the action to be a legitimate confirmation, and he follows them over to Barrington. It’s cramped inside, despite the fact that it’s a mansion, crowded even with their dwindled numbers. The Kingdomers, Alexandrians, and Hilltop colonists dart back and forth throughout the various rooms filling the first floor, working almost seamlessly as an entire unit trying to set the already fancy dining room into some sort of banquet hall. Gathering mismatched chairs, moving tables that aren’t even meant to be served food on, and clinking around an assortment of bowls and spoons and cups.

Kids are running around now, too. Shoot, Daryl had forgotten there were even any children around. Paul had mentioned it, mentioned babies and teens, but Daryl had barely seen anyone younger than the age of eighteen roaming around. Which was probably a good thing, as it meant they’d been keeping safe somehow. He hadn’t seen much of Enid through the fighting either, not like Carl and the way the boy shoved himself into the fray. Maybe she’d been helping to look after them? Maggie would trust the girl with something like that, and the colonists no doubt trusted Maggie’s word on it.

But there are children racing around the area now, nearly ramming into Daryl’s legs as they hold ceramic mugs they aren’t sure what to do with.

“Hey,” Daryl grunts. His tone gets their attention immediately. “Gimme those. Grab some rags to pass out instead.”

“They’re called napkins, Daryl,” Tara teases, eyes narrowing in suspicion as the kids actually do what Daryl asks. “And __why__  did those little devils do exactly what you asked without any back-talk?”

He ignores her and grabs the four mugs the duo had been carrying, holding them against his chest. Aaron gives a chuckle as he and Tara stand with Daryl to watch the kids disappear.

“Daryl’s good with kids.” The three turn at the voice, facing Glenn as he enters with a tired smile. “You should have seen him after Judith was born.”

“What, really?”

Daryl ignores Tara -- _again_  -- and sets the mugs onto the nearest table. He changes the subject, keeping Glenn’s gaze.

“You know what Maggie and Rick are gonna be tellin’ us?”

“Probably just stuff about what comes next, what we need to do, where Negan’s headed… We need to set people at ease without encouraging them to be complacent, right? We’ve seen how that turns out. The war’s over, but that just means more work.”

“More work means we’re still alive,” Aaron add quietly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

They break apart to wind through the ever-narrowing space as more objects are brought in and placed in tight clusters, checking to see if there are enough spoons or jugs of water. Someone brings out baskets of stale bread, which draws Daryl’s attention immediately, stomach grumbling angrily now that it’s been awakened through sent and sight. His teeth tear apart one of the rolls, gulping it down in halves, the dryness scratching at his throat, but it still tastes pretty good. Better than just the granola bars he’d been working off of since the previous day. He grabs a few more handfuls of bread and slips into the kitchen before anyone can tell him otherwise.

There aren’t as many people in here as there were in the dining room, but it somehow manages to look even busier. Wes in managing several pots of varying sizes with Brianna’s help, while Larry and Louie do… something that Daryl can’t quite comprehend, but if it’s anything with alcohol then he might just have to pay it some mind this time, so long as it isn’t wine. Others bustle around to clean up the mess they’d help during the preparation of the meal, which he guesses to be some type of soup -- vegetable, if all the little odds and ends from beans and squash and peas are anything to go by. Shallow buckets for trash or dirtied utensils get passed around, ultimately being filed out of the longer Daryl stands to watch and munch on his stale bread.

And the Carol’s popping in beside Wes, grabbing trays of cookies from the oven to set on the opposite counter, then putting two more into the wave of heat. Daryl can honestly say to himself that he’d take her little homemaker shtick if it meant that she could finally stop fighting like she’d tried time and time again. And if he got some cookies out of it, well… he’s got a sweet tooth when it’s convenient.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Carol eyes him, doing a sweep of his body to make sure he’s alright. “You look nice,” she comments. He doesn’t know what kind of expression he makes, but she rolls her eyes at it. “Rested. And clean. That deserves a cookie.”

“Don’t like you treatin’ me like a damn child,” he grouses, but he snatches the cookie from her outstretched hand all the same. She smiles at him, looking freer than she has in a long while. “What’re you doin’ this for anyway?”

“It’s relaxing, believe it or not. You should try it some time.”

“Nah,” he says with a huff, smiling a little because she does. “I’ll stick to huntin’. Gonna have more time for it comin’ up… Be nice to get back out there.”

Maybe Paul would like to go with him again, too. If the timing’s right, he could show the younger man how to bag something other than squirrel. He’d done pretty well out there, going as quiet as Daryl when he needed to, filling up the rest of the silence with companionable chatter. He hadn’t been as annoying as Daryl had thought. But it was a tough call these days because even if Paul __was__ annoying, and there’d been a time when that’s all Daryl thought of him, he wouldn’t be able to tell anymore. The little ninja had grown on him far too quickly, far too deeply.

“Does Jesus hunt?” Carol asks in that sickly sweet tone that Daryl knows means she’s faking. Innocence or ignorance, he doesn’t know which. Probably both.

“No. Why?”

“No reason… I just imagine you’ll be showing him how. He seems like he’d take to it pretty well.”

“Maybe,” he says, but his eyes remain suspicious. He bites the cookie in half, chewing it a few times before swallowing the hot clump of oats and peanut butter.

“I heard Maggie saying she might pair the two of you up on a run tomorrow, if everything pans out today. I think it’s a good idea. You make a good pair.”

“What you gettin’ at?”

The other half of his cookie is gobbled down with his narrowed gaze still locked on her knowing one. Her fingers tap against the counter top before she turns just enough to begin peeling the cookies off the trays to put on a plate.

“Just making an observation.”

“Snoopin’s more like.”

“Just trying to learn more about Hilltop. The way Maggie talks about Jesus, it seems like they’re close. I was surprised.”

Daryl shrugs, says, “Guess he helped a lot when she showed up with Glenn and Sasha.” _And Abraham,_ he doesn’t include. Carol knows what he means without the mention.

“And he’s helped you a lot, too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he has.”

Her smile is more relaxed this time. More sincere. Broken around the edges but still whole, just like __her__. She seems pleased by the admission from Daryl’s own mouth.

Wiping her hands on a dish towel placed across her shoulder, she sighs.

“Where is he now?”

“Still asleep.”

“Well, at least someone’s getting rest.”

“You didn’t?”

Daryl leans against the counter, flattening himself out so Wes can pass by easily to check on the stove. He doesn’t linger long, however. Probably doesn’t want to seem like he’s eavesdropping.

“A couple of hours, at most. I’ll be fine.”

“You will, huh? Your boy better make sure of that, or I’ll be out huntin’ for tiger.”

Carol laughs quietly, knowing full well Daryl’s only bluffing. He hadn’t even told her the story about the bear, the one he’d mentioned to Paul out on that hunt, but she still knows him. He’s not _that_  stupid. The tiger seems too domesticated, anyhow. Like some kind of giant house cat. Daryl wouldn’t want to hurt it.

“You and Ezekiel both seem to think I need protecting. You should know better. Morgan does.”

“Nah, I do. You do better ‘an any of us. Guess I should be askin’ how you’re treatin’ _him.”_

“Well enough,” Carol teases. “I did try to keep my distance at first, but he grows on you.”

“Like a wart.”

“Probably,” Carol agrees wryly.

But Daryl _does_  know what she means. You try to keep someone at bay with walls and distance, but if they’re determined enough then they’ll slip right in. Then you try to keep them at arm’s length, maybe start admitting to yourself that you enjoy their company, but it’s nothing beyond that. But arm’s length means they can still touch you, can dig their claws in until you can’t do anything but __notice__ , and then that’s all you’re doing. Noticing.

That’s probably how it really went down with Paul, but Daryl doesn’t really know. It all seems like some kind of whirlwind, too much going on all at once. And it seems like it happened that way for Carol with Ezekiel, too. Hell, Daryl and Carol had always been too much alike, now more so than ever. Mirror images of one another inside different shells.

“But once you get to know the _real_  him,” she continues after a beat, “then there’s really no helping yourself. He’s good, wishes he could be as naive as he pretends to be, but I know he’s not. He’s not a bad leader.”

“You’ll make him a better one.”

“You’re sweet today,” Carol coos, her real sincerity for the sentiment still clear even behind the playful pout. “Here, Pookie.”

She hands him another cookie, like it’s a reward for his good behavior. Daryl takes it from her without a words and proceeds to skedaddle before she can ruffle any more of his feathers with quiet teasing.

The dining room is beginning to fill up with people taking seats, chatting amongst themselves with differing emotions. Many seem relieved that the war is over and they can sit around the day after to relax and spend time with the people they care for, but others seem agitated and unsure, still on guard after all they’ve witnessed.

Walking around the cramped space, he can hear whispers of concerns. _What will happen to Negan? What should their next move be? Are they truly safe from the Saviors now? What if more of the dead arrive while they’re trying to get the walls back up?_  All these questions will more than likely get brought up to Rick, Maggie, and Ezekiel when they show up to hold their little debriefing session. Daryl doesn’t really know what to think about all this or what he would even say if he had to be the one to provide answers.

He just wants to focus on what he __can__  do rather than what he can’t or shouldn’t, and he can definitely go on that run that Carol mentioned Maggie might be thinking of sending him on. He knows that Paul would definitely be up for it. He’d told Daryl as much just the other night, went on about how the one thing he’d choose to do is go out scouting with Daryl, bring back some much-needed supplies, maybe even some people. Daryl could see himself doing that regularly; he’d always liked being outside the walls more, but only if he knew they had some and that everyone he cared for was safe behind them. He’d tried it with Aaron and started liking it just fine until they’d gotten trapped in that car, only making it out by sheer dumb luck due to Morgan’s arrival. The man had been so insistent on tracking Rick down that he’d saved them and ended up coming face-to-face with his old friend because of it.

But Daryl is ready to try again, head out with the hippie ninja to do what they do best. And maybe Aaron could tag along, too, once Eric is all healed up and the lines between Alexandria and Hilltop are clear. It worries him a tad, deep down, that he’s already thinking like this, that he’s already making plans that don’t involve him going back with Rick and the others. He’d talked about staying before, but they all had ended up doing that.

Now he has to make the real confession and he’s not even sure if he should or not. If __this__  is where he belongs. It’s certainly more fitting than a community full of fancy houses, but those were mostly burnt to the ground now. His family had been the real fighters in this equation, but the Kingdomers and the Colonists proved to be adaptable. Useful. It wasn’t the case of trading a well-stocked armory for a bunch of farmland anymore, but more like choosing Paul and Glenn and Maggie over Rick and Michonne and Aaron. Carol was already on the outside with her mind made up about returning to the Kingdom with Ezekiel, but that didn’t mean she’d be lost to them, and sticking around Hilltop didn’t mean Daryl was giving anyone up. _It’s good to get away, sometimes… Like you staying at Hilltop._ That’s what she’d said to him. He’d told her that it hadn’t really been a choice in the beginning, but he knew it was nothing but his own decision now. Or whenever exactly it came down to it. He’d just have to think on it. He’d have time enough for that, at least.

He just hopes his brain doesn’t badger him with the fact that Paul might be one of the main reasons for sticking around. He doesn’t want to think too hard about that just yet, especially after last night. Whatever _that_  had been.

But who is Daryl kidding anymore? That thing in the shower with Paul… that had been something big, something more than Daryl had been prepared for, but still something that he could _actually_  handle. Maybe that had surprised him more. Not the fact that he’d been mooning over Paul like some damsel in one of those trashy romance novels the neighbor lady used to lend his mom, but that he’d been __okay__  with it, that he’d accepted it without batting an eye. And Paul had been there with him, drawing Daryl out to meet him in the middle. Both present and accounted for. No fear, just patience and a sense of comfort that overtook his underlying jumble of nerves. He’d seen a little bit of that hesitance on Paul’s face, too, represented by a blush high on his cheeks and on the tips of his ears. But he’d been smirking and teasing with his touch, genuine in his inquiries about Daryl’s tattoos, about __Daryl__  overall.

On the balcony, behind the house -- those moments seemed like stepping stones to get them to the change that had transpired between them just hours earlier. He wonders if Paul will bring it up. He’s not certain if he wants him to or not, but he knows that he wouldn’t try to run if he did. He’s damn tired of that. He can face this head on like he faces everything else.

“You awake in there?”

Daryl snaps to attention, eyes coming in to focus on Rick’s worried expression. He gives a little sigh or relief at seeing his brother up and about.

“Yeah. Just thinkin’.”

“Yeah, I could tell.”

Rick’s mouth presses into a fine line that somehow also twitches into a smile. Daryl returns it as best he can, feeling it come out crooked but unforced. He nods to Michonne when he spots her moving to stand at Rick’s flank, and then to Carl when he joins her with Judith in his arms, a stuffed elephant clutched to her chest. She gives a little screech when she spots Daryl, tiny hand clutching at the air between them, but she doesn’t try to wiggle out of Carl’s grasp. He can’t help but smile a little wider at her antics.

“You doin’ okay?” Daryl questions. “The Doc cleared you a’ready?”

“More or less.”

“Carson said he’s fine enough to walk,” Michonne elaborates, eyeing Rick sternly, “but that he should rest periodically. Don’t wanna open up the stitches on his side. Too easy to do that if he doesn’t take a breather.”

“I’ll be fine. Got a lot to go over. Should do it as soon as possible.”

“Well, hurry up,” Carl demands. “I’m starving. What are they making?”

“Soup,” Daryl answers. At least, that’s his best guess.

“Judith can have some too, right?” Carl looks to Michonne and then Rick, bouncing his baby sister ever-so-slightly while she chews on the matted fur of her toy. “She’d like some vegetables. Wouldn’t you?” He coos that last part, making Rick and Michonne grin fondly at each other.

“Mash it up, maybe. Should probably go check with Maggie or Jesus, see if they have any formula for her.”

Michonne’s hand on Rick’s shoulder stops him from moving.

“I’ll do it,” she tells him, no room for argument in her tone.

The look in her eyes that she directs towards Daryl implores him to keep an eye on Rick, as if he might do something stupid just for the hell of it. Daryl wouldn’t put it past him, honestly. He’d done a lot of questionable things as of late, but who hadn’t? Daryl sure as hell wasn’t going to judge him. Rick still had honor, still had the safety of his family in his head and in his heart. They’d all come such a long way.

Rick sighs when Michonne exits the dining area, eyes trailing from where her form had been to where Daryl’s stands, a look that says _don’t go anywhere_  keeping him in his spot. Rick’ looks to Carl briefly.

“Why don’t you go find us a table?” he requests of his son. “Maggie and Ezekiel shouldn’t be long. And I wanna get this over with as soon as I can.”

Carl let’s out a noise that sounds like the beginning of a protest, but he simply huffs instead and nods. The hat on his head almost gets shoved off by Judith’s incessant flailing.

“Fine.”

As he turns to leave, Daryl says:

“Hey, got a couple’a cookies from Carol already. Might go find her, see what she’ll give ya.”

Carl smiles at that, face lighting up almost childishly at the mention of something sweet. It’s hard to remember sometimes that he __is__  really just a kid, still so young in the mind despite the agelessness of his ways.

“Okay,” he agrees, shifting the baby in his arms. “Come on, Judy,” he says with a smile. “You want a cookie? Can you say _cookie?”_

She doesn’t really answer, just babbles at him and slobbers on her elephant some more. Rick watches them go with a softness to his slackening features.

“Dessert before dinner, huh?”

"S’the least of our problems. And ‘sides, it’s mornin’. You got your time backwards? How long’d you sleep?”

Rick chuckles, shakes his head __no__  despite the tone of his voice being a sheepish __yes__.

“Well, I guess it’s obvious I slept alright. Michonne, though… Pretty sure she stayed up all night. Lookin’ after Judith at first, so Carl could get some rest. Probably kept checkin’ up on me even after she put her to bed. She’s lettin’ all this pile up on her.”

“She knows what she can handle,” Daryl tells Rick quietly, arms crossing high over his chest. Thinking back to the way Michonne had been when they’d first met compared to now? She was far more in control of herself than ever. She knew her own limits just as well as she knew the limits of those around her. “She’ll settle when she’s sure everyone else has.”

“I don’t think she likes what I’m doing with Negan, either. She won’t say, but I _know.”_

 _ _“__ Yeah, but she’s still with you. Said as much back in the Doc’s trailer. She don’t gotta like it. None of us do. Point is, we got your back. Whatever you think keepin’ him alive means… it ain’t shit to me, but I know what you’re doin’, know what you think it changes. That’s you. If Maggie and Ezekiel think it’s right, then that’s what we accept.”

“Thank you,” Rick murmurs, gaze clinging desperately to Daryl’s, head tilting downward to keep the earnest connection. “I know a lot of us aren’t gonna like it, maybe __won’t__  accept it… If they feel like leavin’, then they should know they can. Swap Alexandria for Hilltop or Kingdom. It won’t change us being a family. I-- I just want peace, you know? I don’t want Carl’s whole childhood being death after death after death. I don’t want Judith’s first memories being fear. And maybe it’s dumb to start with someone like Negan, but if we can work through it, show each other that we can rise above his methods, then I think we’ll be alright.”

“Hope you’re right.”

“Yeah,” Rick huffs, mouth curved with an awkward smile. “Always hope that, too. Guess we’ll see.”

Glenn arriving once more with Maggie and Sasha breaks up the dwindling conversation. Daryl leaves Rick to wait with them for Ezekiel’s arrival from wherever he’d buckled down for the night, moving to stand by the archway to keep out of the way. And also to watch. Daryl had always been at observations, even if he usually kept quiet about what exactly he saw, and standing here now gave him a moment to just process the world around him.

Carol chats with Morgan and a few of Ezekiel’s guards by the kitchen door, which is where Wes and Alex step out from. They pause, taking a look behind their shoulders just before Paul steps into view. He must have come in through the side door not too long ago, met up with them to discuss what exactly was going on. Daryl can see that he looks rested, fresh clothes hanging casually on his frame while his hair sat tied up messily at the crown of his head. Daryl darts his eyes away when Paul takes a position beside Alex, face turning away from Daryl’s unnoticed line of sight.

He doesn’t want to focus on that sight, so he focuses on Aaron and Tara instead, watches them make their way towards where Maggie and Rick stand at the far left with a bitter hitch in the back of his throat that goes ignored. He doesn’t know if Rosita will show up, knows he wouldn’t if he were in her position, but he hopes she’ll come around for no other reason than the fact that he doesn’t want to see this destroy her.

Maybe keeping busy in the medical trailer will do her some good. Although, no one inside can overpower her if she’d already gotten it inside her head to off Negan then and there… Daryl can’t be sure she _won’t,_ really. It’s not his problem. She can do what she wants, make her own decisions, just like she’d tried to help him do back when he couldn’t think of anything but his anger towards Dwight over Denise. Already it feels like another lifetime has passed since then.

Daryl sees Gabriel making the rounds, priest collar still in tact around his throat. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s smiling kindly at the people who approach him, offering an open ear as they speak with him. Francine floats by with Andy and a few women from the Kingdom that Daryl still hasn’t learned the names of and they point towards the large window on the opposite wall when Enid stops to ask them a question, probably about where Carl had gone to. Many others pass in a daze, taking up seats as Ezekiel makes his entrance without any guards or tigers trailing after him.

The mood is one of reluctant joy, balefulness that could only bump its head after an ugly storm. Even with all the tragedies Daryl has faced, he’s never really had that extended moment of calm, the sense that everything was fine now. He’d thought that everything _would_  be, so many times that he’d become immune to the idea after awhile, but never really that everything _was._ That everything was… settled.

Settled. Was it? Would that really happen? If Abraham could have seen this through with Sasha…

Daryl shakes himself out of his mental reverie. The speed of the situation really starts to pick up, seats filling when the three leaders take up positions near the very first table at the far end of the room. Glenn stays by Maggie, Michonne behind Rick once she returns with baby formula, which is a sight that reminds Daryl of the very first time they’d ever met her. Carol doesn’t make any move to stand with Ezekiel, but Daryl can see her and Morgan take the table in the middle to watch their _King_  with a clear, uninterrupted view.

He can’t help but drift back over to Paul as he sweeps the room once more, noticing him standing by the back wall with his arms crossed, a mirror of Daryl without even having realized it. Alex and Wes sit in front of him with a few others, but Paul’s attention is no longer on them. In fact, it’s not even on Rick or Maggie or Ezekiel anymore. He looks to Daryl like he’d been able to feel him looking first, mouth twitching into a little grin that’s half greeting and half awkward affection. Or at least that’s what Daryl sees. Paul looks so soft, staring at him like that from across the spacious room, that it’s starting to feel like there are too many people around, stealing all his oxygen.

They’re only drawn away from the orbital pull when Rick begins to address their combined communities as a whole.

“I know not everyone’s here right now, we got quite a few laid up still, but Maggie suggested we do a headcount and I think it’s a good way to start. Get our bearings straight first thing. So maybe everyone settle down for a few minutes so we can get a look, then we have a few things to talk about.”

* * *

 

It’s almost funny how much people can disagree after how well they’d been working together up until this point. But Daryl suspects that Rick had assumed this would happen, that Maggie and Ezekiel had as well, because he’d been prepared enough for it.

Mentioning Negan’s name seemed to light another fire beneath everyone’s asses as they sat and stood around the cramped dining space. No one could come to an agreement on what they should do with the former leader of the Saviors. There were many who wanted to see him dead, Daryl included, but when Maggie brought up the possibility of a vote then it was as if everyone suddenly clammed up. It reminded Daryl of the Randall ordeal back at the farm, when everyone wanted the same thing but no one wanted to talk about how they could achieve it; when Daryl had showed up after Dale’s plea, but still stood silently, wanting nothing more than to get the whole damn thing over with. No one was here to plead Negan’s case, however, and Daryl wonders if Dale would have tried. If Hershel or Tyreese or Beth would have forgiven him. He wants to laugh at the idea of Abraham doing anything _but_  ramming his boot up Negan’s ass.

No one wants to see Negan alive, but not everyone will plead the case for his death to become the justice they deserve. It gave Rick’s idea of keeping him prisoner more of a leg to stand on, but still -- not everyone understood the merits that Rick was trying to point out.

 _“You’re really gonna take him back?”_ Sasha had asked incredulously, unable to even hide the betrayal slowly spreading across her features.

 _“I’m not saying this is the right way,”_ Rick had tried to explain, _“but I think it’s a path we need to try out, especially now.”_

_“Why? So you can feel better? So you can sit there and tell yourself you did everything you could when you know everything he took from us? This isn’t some kind of lesson, Rick. If you wanna teach Carl and Judith how to be good people, then you should be making an example out of Negan.”_

Even Maggie’s attempt at getting her attention remained unnoticed to Sasha’s mounting anger.

 _“You’re gonna keep him prisoner, feed him three meals a day, give him a bed, soap, water…”_ Her shoulders had risen up, arms out, mouth spread into a toothy grimace as tears threatened to escape her haunted eyes. _“Where’s the punishment? What are you gonna do, Rick? What’s gonna happen to him that’s worse than death? Because what I see is that Negan gets to live. What about Abraham? What about Eugene? Tobin? Why are you keeping him alive when they don’t get to be?”_

She’d left the room not long after, not taking to the fact that Rick’s explanation only consisted of the argument that he was doing what he felt was right, that he knew what she was saying and wanted more than anything to end Negan’s life but that he __couldn__ ’t; this path was his to take, much like the snippets of the journey he’d heard Morgan had been on before he’d helped Daryl and Aaron out of the Wolves’ territory. Rick was sorry and Sasha was just… inconsolable. Daryl knew she couldn’t be the only one, knew that Rosita would have stood up with her if she had decided to show up with everyone else, but this was the way things were going to play out and Daryl wasn’t sure of how to feel.

When he’d peeked at Paul from across the room, his downcast gaze and tightly crossed arms told Daryl that he was feeling much the same. They’d won the war, but the battle was still raging. Complications like this would always arise.

There’d been no vote, in the end. Maggie and Ezekiel had agreed to let Rick take Negan back to Alexandria to be held in Morgan’s cell, although they both wanted to make sure that he’d be monitored at all times. Rick did his best to assure everyone that Negan would never see the light of day again, easing very few fears.

Daryl was tempted to make him promise that Negan’s only meals would be dog food until he eventually keeled over. They could have Dwight deliver some from Sanctuary, if they still had any left. But then he’d thought better of getting involved and tried to wipe his brain clean of the issue instead. No more revenge missions. Not yet, at least.

The rest of the meeting hadn’t caused as much of a stir. Maggie did her headcount, Glenn marking down in a tablet who all was spread out around them. Alex and Aaron promised that they’d take stock of the infirmary for her, for both the people and supplies, to complete the list Paul had started for her. And then it was Ezekiel’s turn. His words were more of a __thank you__  than anything, his strange and overly-grand speech patterns making Daryl believe for a second that he might truly be a king addressing his loyal subjects. He couldn’t see Carol’s face from the angle he’d been standing, but he could imagine that she’d smiled a little, half amused and half exasperated. The way she relaxed in her chair told him enough.

The trio hadn’t wanted to keep droning on for too long, not eager to stop starving mouths from feeding themselves with bowls of food that sat only a door away, but they’d taken enough time to skim over a handful of priorities that everyone needed to keep in mind. Rebuild Hilltop’s walls, replenish urgent supplies, make an official deal between what might now be all _four_  communities, and begin creating shelters to replace the houses that had burned down inside Alexandria.

The present goal, being to simply _eat_  and _enjoy,_ is a little more simple and easier to achieve. Because as soon as the leaders took their seats at various tables, Wes and several others began carting out food to serve.

Daryl watches from his spot against the walls, hands shoved awkwardly into pockets while his eyes scan the movements around him. He’s waiting for everyone to get served first, holding onto the meager amounts of bread and cookies in his stomach until he’s sure no one has gone without.

It looks like Tara, Aaron, and Alex are grabbing trays, probably to take to the medical trailer for those still inside, like Rosita and Eric and Doctor Carson. Maybe they’ll come across Sasha and offer her some, too. If she hasn’t already left.

He straightens against the wall on instinct when he spots Paul carefully weaving through the crowd on a path set straight for Daryl.

The younger man doesn’t look at him right away, only focuses on pressing the thumb of his right hand into the palm of his left until he’s just a few feet away. The sharpness of his mind gleams through seawater eyes, but so much else about him seems __gentle__  in this moment. Something comfortable and, in turn, _comforting._

The smile Paul has for Daryl this time is no longer awkward, it’s the embodiment or warmth and affection. And the little ninja must have some sort of enthrallment over Daryl because the moment he presents these emotions to be absorbed is the moment Daryl begins to relax his shoulders, breathe in deeply, and project that distinct affection right back.

“Watching Rick talk seems like some kind of honor,” Paul jokes quietly, though Daryl knows enough by now to recognize the signs of approval, a strong one that’s been born of appraising Rick thoroughly throughout the days they’ve known each other.

“S’always been that way, since I’ve known him. Gets in your head. Makes you wanna do right.” He turns his head a few inches to get a better look at Paul’s attentive expression. Daryl doesn’t shy away when he adds, “Guess the two a you got that in common.”

Paul hums deeply, mouth twitching into a pleasant smile as he fits himself snugly by Daryl’s side to lean up against the wall, too.

“True, but being good with words only gets you so far. Rick’s more than proven himself to the world. He’s an admirable hero. Maggie and Ezekiel are, too.”

“You think you ain’t like them?” Daryl wonders, perhaps because Paul’s tone of voice suggests a separation between himself and the friends he’s just mentioned.

“Not really.” When he rolls his head against the wall to view Daryl directly, strands of hair fall from the band at the top of his head to frame his face once more. “I think I have more in common with you, honestly.”

In truth, Daryl’s been thinking that as well and has been for a little while now. It’s not the presentation that’s the same, not the details, but the core? The foundation? He’s learned the similarities just as well as he’d learned the differences. It’s been a process.

But whatever Daryl thinks -- and also what Carol might think, as she’d told him back at Alexandria that they’d resembled each other in certain ways -- his desire to hear Paul’s thoughts through pensive words is just too strong to pass up.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I like you, for one. And I know you like me, too.” Paul’s cocky smirk is irritating, it always has been, but Daryl can’t deny any longer that there’s an allure to such an assured sight, especially one that is directed solely his way.

His arms drop from his chest, one of them bumping Daryl’s, twitching just enough to tap curl a finger around Daryl’s wrist. Paul taps the sensitive skin there, jolting Daryl’s pulse with each simple touch. It’s starting to become a caress just as he lets their hands pull away from each other.

“That’s just the obvious,” he continues faintly. “We can talk about the rest some other time… Alright?”

Daryl’s forehead wrinkles, confusion settling in at the phrasing of the sentence. The question. It sounds like Paul’s trying to hint at wanting to talk about something more than just the qualities they share, maybe like why they share them or what it means that they do. Maybe like what it means that they __like__  each other and that Paul could so casually say it without some huge, sprawling, over-complicated preamble, one that one would make anxiety well-up inside of Daryl’s chest if he had to dive into it. They _like_ each other. That’s what this is. And Paul’s talking about it like it’s some damn school yard crush. Daryl’s so torn on that idea that he doesn’t know if he should be offended or not. Because isn’t it more than that? It has to be.

Maybe this is why they need that talk…

Daryl almost groans at the idea, creeping dread as well as a sort of silly sense of anticipation simultaneously threading their way together inside the deepest parts of his body. He doesn’t know what he should prepare for, but when he takes in Paul’s returned smile after being nudged, Daryl can let himself assume that it might be something worthwhile.

And if they’re as similar as Paul believes they are then Daryl isn’t the only one feeling jittery right now, Paul’s just better than him at hiding it. Usually.

“Come on.”

Daryl doesn’t have to be told twice to follow Paul towards Wes and the cart of food. He takes the bowl that’s offered to him and then shuffles around, leading Paul forward this time and over towards Rick’s table. Michonne sits beside him with Judith in her lap, Carl across from her and conveniently closer to Enid at where she’s sat at Maggie’s table only a few feet away. When Rick looks up from the quiet conversation he’d been having with Michonne, he nods to both Daryl and Paul in welcoming.

He plops down into the metal fold-up chair beside Carl, scooting it away slightly to offer the teenager some more room but also taking up more of Paul’s when he drops down next to him. The younger man has never complained about bumping elbows before, however, and they’d always seemed to gravitate towards each other without word or cause since they’d first met.

Being close to Daryl doesn’t seem to bother him. And on the flip-side, being close to Paul doesn’t bother Daryl either. There’s nothing claustrophobic about it, nothing forced or uncomfortable. It’s as easy as looking Rick in the eye and returning a nod that signifies their unity no matter what.

“What do you think about all this?” Rick asks Paul after they both have a first bite of vegetable soup. He already knows how Daryl feels on the matter, but -- aside from Maggie -- no one has probably asked Paul’s opinion on the aftermath of the war.

Paul sighs rather heavily, nimble fingers rubbing at the tarnished metal of his spoon. Daryl shovels another bite in while keeping Paul in his peripheral.

“Personally, I would have already killed him.”

Daryl isn’t surprised by this admission. Not in the slightest. Hell, Paul had read Daryl _The Art of War_ as a damn bedtime story. And Daryl’s seen him in the throes of battle, has witnessed that thunderous fury. Everyone’s got a mean-streak in them if pushed hard enough. Daryl thinks Paul might have done more than just __kill__  Negan, but of that he can’t really be sure.

Michonne and Rick _do_  look a little shocked by Paul’s bluntness. Carl’s scoff is more indignant than anything else.

 _“See?”_ he stresses, turning to get a clearer view of his father. “Even __Jesus__  thinks Negan should be dead. Why--”

“Carl,” Michonne reprimands. It’s not too sharp, just enough to let the boy know he needs not to continue. She quickly reminds him: “Not now.”

Paul shifts. His features scrunch apologetically.

“That doesn’t mean I think you’re wrong,” he tells Rick honestly. “If I really disagreed with your decision, I would have come forward and said so. Keeping Negan alive isn’t something I’ll lose sleep over and I understand where you’re coming from, but if you’re asking me? Yeah, I would have killed him.”

“Still could,” Daryl mumbles as he shoves the spoon back into his mouth. The looks he gets from the four sitting around him all vary, but the one thing they have in common is moderate amusement.

“We have options now,” Rick decides to retort, forcing his attention back onto Paul. “And we have time to explore those options. This __is__  the next world. It’s a new world. That means it’s up to us to make it what we need.”

“I do agree with you, Rick. Where are you gonna start?”

“Thinkin’ we should head back to Alexandria in a few hours,” Rick informs them. He tears into one of the rolls, taking a glance at Michonne to receive her nod of assurance, then allows himself to look between Daryl and Paul’s faces. “Get Negan situated, take stock of the supplies we have left, figure out somethin’ we can do for shelter. Gonna need to meet with Dwight soon, too, but that can wait for a few days. I’d like to have you with me.”

He addresses that last part solely to Paul, either thinking better than to ask Daryl to tag along to Sanctuary or already assuming that he would. Daryl doesn’t know if he _would_  go or not.

Thin broth slides down his throat when he swallows, narrow eyes trained on Paul’s thoughtful expression. A brow raises and his head tilts, mouth turning down at the corners while he shrugs.

“Sure, I could do that. I’ll talk to Maggie. Maybe in a week or so, when things have settled, I’ll meet you at Alexandria and we can go from there.”

“We should talk to Ezekiel about those horses,” Michonne adds, voice hushed. She pulls a bottle away from Judith’s chubby hands as it threatens to fall to the floor, her eyes drooping dangerously.

“Here--” Carl whispers. He stands and stries to the opposite side of the table, carefully lifting his baby sister from Michonne’s grasp to allow her time to eat now that the baby’s been fed. Carl’s bowl is almost empty anyhow, nothing but a few inches of liquid left.

Michonne nods as he settles himself back into his seat and turns in her own to look steadily at Paul while continuing her train of thought.

“We could use a couple to move between here and Alexandria. Shouldn’t waste gas if we’re not trading or scavenging. Horses could help with that. Delivering messages, scouting, maybe even hauling a small load.”

Idly tapping his spoon against his bowl, Daryl chimes in.

“Don’t got many anymore. Even if he was willin’ to trade, what could we get for him? He’s got fighters. Food.” He’s got Carol now, too, though Daryl doesn’t add that part.

Michonne shrugs, replies: “Won’t know what he needs until we ask.”

“And you want me to be the one to do it?”

Rick leans back in his seat, barely masking a wince. Daryl makes an effort not to slurp __too__ much while they’re speaking.

“You’re the best negotiator we got--” By the way Paul’s chest expands and his shoulders drop, Daryl figures the _we_  out of Rick’s mouth, that inclusion of him so resolutely into their circle, is already enough to get him to agree. “--And you’ve known Ezekiel longer than any of us. Horses would be useful, if you’re ever up for bartering.”

It’s almost funny, how much everyone relies on Paul. How long had he been Hilltop’s only real connection beyond their walls? Scouting, scavenging, smoothing things over with the people when Gregory was too busy with his head up on his own ass. And then when he’d bumped into Daryl and Rick on the road, how easily he’d trusted them after one simple act of kindness how he’d helped Maggie set up a deal for their communities. He’d saved Daryl more than once, saved them _all;_ fought beside them, fought for them, and now he’d be one of the vital parts of cleaning up the mess the war with the Saviors had left in its wake.

Remaining the go-to between communities, the negotiator and the scavenger. Becoming Maggie’s right hand as Glenn remained her left, becoming an extension of Daryl’s very core. Just the idea was overwhelming for Daryl, he couldn’t imagine how much weight Paul was feeling, though he knew his shoulders could hold far more than anyone could initially think. For someone who liked to be away from people more often than not, he sure as hell seemed like a magnet for responsibility, doing anything and everything just because someone asked. Another trait they seemed to share.

So he’d find it funny if he didn’t feel a little bad, especially since he figures Paul doesn’t know about Maggie wanting to send him out as soon as possible. He’d probably look forward to that more than meeting Dwight at Sanctuary or trying to trade something with the well-stocked Kingdom just to get some horses. Things start to stack up after a while. They already have been.

“I’ll get to it eventually,” Paul decides, smiling at Rick almost appreciatively.

“Good. Thank you. And hey, don’t let Ezekiel give you any of the nervous ones. Daryl doesn’t handle those very well.”

Rick’s smirk makes Daryl scowl, the heat of irritation turning into heat of embarrassment when Paul swivels his head around to give Daryl an amused smile, watching him with patience as if that will prompt him to explain.

He swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, ignoring Paul to send Rick a glare.

“She got spooked by a snake. Weren’t my fault.”

“You couldn’t stay on,” Rick teases.

At least he’s got some good humor back, even if it is at Daryl’s expense. It feels a lot like the teasing he’d done in the truck, before and after they’d met Paul on the road. In retrospect, that had turned out to be a good day. Maybe this one will, too.

“Whatever. It ain’t funny if you get a scar from it.”

“Then what is it?”

“Badass.”

Carl chuckles quietly, trying not to wake Judith with his shaking chest. Michonne’s smile lights up her whole face. Daryl can see that Paul is practically buzzing with desire to ask which of his scares had been a result of the moment in question, but forces himself to keep quiet… He’s not even supposed to know about Daryl’s scars, that he even has any, but he’d seen them last night. He was bound to question them eventually, too curious for his own good, but maybe Daryl will be ready to tell him by then.

Rick, for his part, looks pleased by Daryl’s rebuttal; pleased to share a laugh when they so rarely get to.

“Alright,” he allows, shaking his head with a smile still in place.

They return to the food after that, taking their time to reach the bottom of their bowls. Michonne keeps Paul in a muttered conversation about several things, Rick or Carl occasionally chiming in with their thoughts. Daryl chooses just to listen, watching the natural shifts of Paul’s profile intently.

His staring is only interrupted when Carl transfers Judith into Daryl’s arms, her elephant dropping onto the table so he can follow after Enid in a quest to gather more cookies. Paul seems immediately intrigued by the sight of Daryl trying to settle a napping infant against his chest, so much so that he doesn’t even catch half of what Rick says next. He hasn’t even got any shame when he finally tears his eyes away to give Rick a cheerful apology.Daryl pretends he doesn’t see Michonne’s sly side-eye, keeping his focus on the Lil Asskicker in his lap until Carl and Enid return with the promised napkin-wrapped treats.

He trades a baby for another cookie, his third of the day already, handing a couple to Paul and then passing the rest to Rick and Michonne to be dealt with. He bites into the cooled, peanut-buttery snack, dropping his left hand into his lap. He notices that Paul’s right hand is in his own lap as well, _his_  left still atop the table to toy with crumbs while listening to Rick talk about what they might need structures sturdy enough for shelter to replace the houses they’d lost behind Alexandria’s walls.

And it’s pure impulse -- a movement done without thought, an urge carried over by the intoxication of simple __touch__  he’d been experiencing these past several days -- that he very slowly reaches from his thigh to Paul’s, resting calloused fingertips against smooth skin timidly. He doesn’t look at Daryl, continues to nod at Rick’s questions with full engrossment, but the reaction below the table is immediate.

Paul’s hand turns beneath Daryl’s, knuckles against thigh, thumb sliding to flatten Daryl’s fingertips against his palm when it faces upward. Then his grip curls around Daryl’s fingers, slotting their hands into an awkward hold of mismatched positions. But it’s there and it’s strong, reassuring with care and confidence.

A thumb glides over Daryl’s cracked knuckles soothingly, a caress that makes the beat in his chest seize momentarily in a sweet rush. It’s starting to sink in just how much he likes this, little moments like these, and that he can have them with someone he never could have imagined would be so important.

“Be careful.”

Maggie’s voice draws his attention away from the crumbs atop the table. He looks to the right to see Glenn walking backwards, smiling at his wife as he retreats. Daryl knows he’s probably headed to begin burying the bodies they’d loaded into the bus. He also remembers that he said he’d help with that.

“Yo, Glenn--”

Glenn stops while Daryl begins to rise, pulling his hand away from Paul when the younger man’s hold loosens. He reaches for his bowl to take back to the kitchen but stops when Paul slides it away.

“I got it,” he insists.

Daryl mumbles his thanks and nods his goodbye to Rick and Michonne, shoving his chair closer to the table. As he passes behind Paul, he reaches out last minute to flick an ear that’s so invitingly uncovered and noticeable. He feels the little ninja flinch away from the quick sting, can picture those big eyes narrowed with playful irritation as they remain on his back. He doesn’t look, though. Doesn’t need to when Glenn’s poorly hidden amusement tells him everything he needs to know.

“Let’s go,” he grunts as he strides to meet Glenn.

As they leave the dining room, an unexpected feeling of __contentment__  settles inside his chest, suspiciously in the area of his steadily thumping heart. It might be a good day after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter is quite a bit longer than my usual limit, but there was no clear space to break it up. It just felt like it all had to be kept as this one part. I hope you guys like that!]
> 
> First, I have to say that it felt weird not posting last week. Like I've only been posting for a short amount of time, but it's felt like a habit. But what feels even weirder is that, after almost 5 months of working on this story, I've been having troubles with these chapters (this one but especially the chapter coming after it). I liked the idea of this one a lot, but it didn't come together as well as I had hoped; in my opinion, anyway. Of course I want nothing more than for you guys to still enjoy it. (I'm just frustrated with myself and my stuff in general, which happens a lot, but I'm going to keep going.) I feel like it's a pretty big deal, which is why I was sort of hesitant about it (the shower stuff, I mean). No kissing again (it's coming soon!), but the intimacy of it is still very important and -- I hope -- felt by everyone. And also, giving Daryl bits of backstory (I take from the show and from Survival Instinct, but also put my own bits and pieces here and there) is really weird. I felt like it needed to happen tho, that he needed to open up to Paul on a more personal level... and what's more personal then talking about your tattoos while naked in a shower with someone?? Daryl's come such a long way. 
> 
> Second: I hope you all listen to the song for this chapter (Map On A Wall by Lucy Dacus) because its super beautiful in general, but it was also what I listened to on repeat through the whole thing, specifically the shower scene.
> 
> Third: We're coming closer and closer to the end, I can't believe it. This is chapter 9, so if things go as planned then there will be 4 chapters left (maybe 3, depending on how I split things when it's all written). I'm still sort of lagging with writing lately, but I've finally finished chapter 10 as well and so I hope to get to work on 11 soon. I think one of my issues is that I've been thinking too much about what could come after. I have a tentative idea for a mini-sequel to this fic (MAYBE), which would involve the Whisperer story-line. It's only something I thought of lately. But I also have an au idea... I don't know if anyone would be interested in it, however. But like I said, why do I focus on weird things when I should be writing /cries. I just wanted to mention that now, tho, since it's been in my head a lot.
> 
> Fourth: If anyone is still reading this horribly long note, I just want to thank you so much for everything. Every time I get a comment, I'm just so happy and appreciative to read it. It's nice that you're able to take the time to write me your thoughts. I love knowing what you guys think. I hope everyone is still enjoying the fic. <3 I think I'll try to stick with updating once every other week now that we're getting closer to the end. It'll give me more time to write these last few chapters. So no update next Saturday, but there should be one that Saturday after. And please forgive any mistakes. I always have trouble looking things over. Thanks again!


	10. Under The Same Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My yearn oughta turn these things,  
> turn these things around  
> But I learned from you  
> Oh, I made these plans, made these plans  
> with you around, dear  
> With you around, dear  
> Will you be there, when the day is done?  
> Oh, will you be there?  
> Under the same, under the same sun  
> under the same sun"
> 
> (under the same sun | ben howard)

Even with the chilly autumn air swooping all around him, the act of digging hole after hole has sweat shining his skin and dampening his collar. But Glenn isn’t faring much better. The back of his faded yellow shirt has a dark patch that clings to his torso, hair sticking to his forehead when he turns to squint through the treeline behind Daryl.

It’s the fifth time he’s done that within the hour, looking towards the walls of Hilltop as if he could see _through_  them. He’s probably worried about Maggie or at least curious as to what she’s up to, no doubt hopeful that Sasha and Enid are making sure his wife isn’t doing more than necessary.

They aren’t the only two out here, of course. Others had volunteered to help with their efforts, but they’d only accepted a handful to follow them out into the woods behind Hilltop’s south wall. A few are on watch, scanning the area to be sure there aren’t any roamers about, undead or otherwise. The rest help dig graves where they can, scattering them around roots and fallen leaves.

Daryl winces when Glenn spins back around to continue flinging dirt into a pile. His shoulder feels particularly achy, a side effect from all the fighting only hours earlier as much as from the way he’d slept atop that lumpy couch in Paul’s trailer. He should probably stick to his back next time, though that risks a kink in his neck and he hates those even more.

He pushes through despite his discomfort, ignoring the physical twinges as easily as he always has. Maybe it’ll come back full force later, but he’ll take it if it means not having to be out here dropping corpses into the damp earth for much longer.

The work is slow-going, having already taken them close to three hours, and they’re only barely close to done. It keeps his hands busy, at least, even if his thoughts still stir.

The blade of the shovel cuts into the forest floor, handle jutting towards the sky. Daryl leaves it to follow the path back to the muddy road where the bus waits. He can hear footsteps crunching after him, a sign that Glenn is following quietly to help him with the next body. It’s been an unspoken routine this whole time, neither of them letting the other drag someone all the way back alone. It goes faster with two. Easier with teamwork. It’s just too bad they don’t have the sheets to spare. They’d found one for Tobin, to cover him for transport back to Alexandria, but the rest couldn’t be given up. Daryl can tell lowering their allies in uncovered bothers Glenn by the way his frown seems to get deeper the longer they stick to it.

They hop into the bus one after the other and grab one of the Kingdomer’s next in the thinning pile. Daryl’s grunt fills the otherwise silent space when he hauls the torso up to chest level while Glenn wraps his arms around heavy legs. With a nod, they get moving back through the trees, boots clomping with their lumbering steps. Daryl doesn’t exactly try to _hide_  the fact that he’s panting, he just doesn’t feel the need to let Glenn know he could use a moment to catch his breath. He’s too stubborn for a break.

A heavy sigh escapes his chest after he drops down into the hole to gently lower the upper body into its fresh grave. Then he reaches up to handle the legs, saving Glenn the trouble of having to squeeze in as well. He needs to help Daryl scurry back up anyhow, supporting half of the weight when Daryl jumps to find his footing.

They break away after that, separating to reclaim their different tasks. Daryl tears his shovel from its standing position and sets off to find a new area suitable enough to dig in, glancing back to see Glenn bending to grab some twigs from the pile they’d gathered at the side, pulling twine from his pocket to create yet another cross. Daryl had done the same at the start, just for two; etching short names into the splinters with his knife. Glenn does the same now for all the rest.

* * *

 

A whole other hour passes before Glenn starts telling the others to head back inside the walls. They only have two more trips to the bus left, two more graves to dig, so when everyone clears out Daryl suggests that Glenn go back, too.

“I’m not leaving you out here by yourself.”

“You are,” Daryl insists, fingers curling around the shovel’s grip. The gardening gloves that cover his hands wipe the sweaty hair away from his face, probably leaving streaks of dirt as a result. “Go on. Ain’t much more here. Wanna do it on my own.”

It’s an excuse that Glenn can obviously see through, but he doesn’t try to argue or change Daryl’s mind. He simply nods and offers a tiny, closed-lip smile.

“I’ll come check on you if you’re not back in an hour, okay? Just to be safe.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

Glenn pats Daryl on the back as he passes to start in the direction towards the road. Daryl watches until he’s fully out of sight and then, with a sigh, slams the point of the shovel into a patch of unbroken soil. The sun glares down at him through bared branches, creating rays that scatter across the moss and twigs, illuminating the dirty sheen across his arms. It’s almost peaceful out here, with nothing and no one bothering him. There’s not a living soul around; no birds or squirrels, maybe nothing beyond a few bugs or insects he can’t see, and certainly no enemies. Not in this moment. He’s alone out here, an expanse of graying clouds and dried up leaves keeping him company. Just the way he used to like. He’d like it just as much now if his reason for being out here was different.

His thoughts begin to blur as his shoulders turn and roll, arms jutting out with every strike and toss. Skies always clear, flowers always bloom. People remain people, good or bad or something in between. They exist as they always have. For every Governor or Gareth or Dawn or Negan they find, others like Sasha and Abraham and Aaron and Paul find _them._ That’s what makes it all worth it. Not surviving because of base instinct, because you need to, but _living_  because you _want_  to. Because you want to see the fruits of your labor, you want to see the world you recreate, you want to know that the people who’ve earned your trust and love will thrive as they were always meant to do.

Because it isn’t selfish to want something better than what you’ve gotten you’re entire life.

He pauses when he hears rustling, reaching for his bow on instinct and then his gun a second later when he remembers that he’d left the former inside of Paul’s trailer. But a moment of listening reveals that movements don’t sound aimless or fumbling, they’re rather purposeful even at the leisurely pace. Daryl turns towards the source of the noise and after a few ticks of just squinting into the distance, he finally spots Rick coming into view.

“Glenn said you were still out here,” Rick calls once he’s close enough not to echo. “Still hard at work.”

“Just wanted to finish up.”

“By yourself?”

“Not much left.” Daryl shrugs, twisting his hands against the handle. “Can do it on my own. Lotta other shit for people to get done.”

“Ain’t that the truth…”

Rick’s trailed thought has Daryl watching him closely, waiting patiently for whatever his friend wants to say next. Rick gives himself time to look around the forest, eyes squinted and brows raised curiously, simply taking everything in. His hands rest at his hips; one atop the colt, the other scratching at the edge of his cotton t-shirt. Daryl rests his boot on the step of the shovel, adding just enough weight to sink it back into the soil, and he keeps his foot there as Rick’s gaze finally meets his own straight on.

“We’re headin’ back soon,” he reports. “Maggie’s settin’ up a run for Jesus, too. Tara might stay behind to see it through, meet up with us back at Alexandria when it’s done. Aaron’s tryin’ to convince Eric to stick around for a while longer, but the man says he wants to go home, ‘specially after Carson let slip that Rosita could follow up on his injuries just as well as he could. Guess that led to Carl thinkin’ he could camp out at Hilltop, too.”

Daryl snorts and lets go of the shovel to yank one of his gloves off, dropping it to the ground.

“What for?” he questions, thumb immediately meeting his dry lips to allow his teeth a chance to bite at the bit of nail still left unchewed.

“He… _disagrees_  with what I’m doin’ with Negan. Figure that’s a big part of it. But then Enid’s stayin’ here with Maggie and Glenn and Sasha, and I started thinkin’ _that_  might have somethin’ to do with it, too. He seems to really like her.” Rick’s eyes are like piercing crystals beneath the stream of sunlight from which he stands, watching Daryl like his words mean more than what he’s letting on. But then he sighs and shrugs, allowing Daryl to chomp his nail in peace once he looks away. “He’s claimin’ it’s because he wants to learn blacksmithing. Has a sudden interest in it, I guess. Well… I don’t really know how _sudden_  it is. Feel kind of bad about that, but I have time now. To sit with him and talk. Listen to what he thinks and wants. I know Michonne can help me with that. It’s easier with both of us than it is with just me.”

Daryl hums quietly, a combination of agreement and just acknowledgement of Rick’s words in general. He pulls the other glove off and drops it join its other half on the ground, wiping his sweaty palm against his jeans.

“Could let ‘im visit once in a while, long enough to learn a few things. Be good to have that kinda skill back at Alexandria.”

“That’s true. And I don’t doubt he’d take to it well enough, I just can’t help worryin’. He’s growin’ up, but he’s still a kid. My son. I don’t want anything else happenin’ to him.”

“It’d be good for him. Gettin’ away,” Daryl murmurs, Carol’s words running through is mind in tandem. _It’s good to get away, sometimes._

Rick chuckles. “Yeah, that’s true, too. He’ll be glad to know you’re on his side. _‘But Dad, Daryl said…’_ I can hear it already.”

His mouth stretches into a tiny smile and he shakes his head at Rick’s playful words. And as the laughter fades naturally from Rick’s expression, settling into something calm and pleasant, Daryl can’t shake the feeling that he’s waiting for something.

Daryl knows exactly what that is.

“I’m, uh--” Daryl swallows. “M’stayin, too.”

“Yeah?”

Rick doesn’t look shocked by his words. He’s read this headline already, heard it days ago when Daryl said they should all stick around Hilltop for a while. He’d started that off by saying it for himself, that _he_  would be staying before he changed it to the rest of them rounding up for Negan’s return. Should’ve known Rick would’ve caught on to that.

So Rick doesn’t look shocked in the least. His eyebrow is raised inquisitively, head tilted as he waits for Daryl to elaborate in some way or maybe just simply to answer with an affirmative _yes_. He takes a breath and says it.

“Yeah.”

_“Yeah.”_

The emphasis on the word has Daryl narrowing his eyes at his brother, forehead creasing and brows furrowing at Rick’s smile. It’s genuine, reaching the familiar orbs that read him so easily, but there’s also something forlorn about it.

“Well, I’m happy--”

“Don’t,” Daryl interrupts quickly, face flooding with heat at the unfinished implication.

He hasn’t even talked to Paul about staying yet, hasn’t really asked if that’s something he’d like. Daryl doesn’t know if sticking around would be a good or a bad thing, if the younger man would grow bored if Daryl was just _there_  all the time. Here. And he knows it’s more likely that Paul wouldn’t want him to go away -- all signs so far have pointed to that conclusion -- but Daryl can’t be certain of what it’ll mean if he _stays._

The sadness belying Rick’s smile seems to slowly drift into something more like amusement as Daryl’s embarrassment becomes clearer.

“Alright,” he concedes with a chuckle, whole damn face looking too smug for his own good. “But I have to say, I knew this would happen.”

“The hell you did,” Daryl spits without venom, reeling back at the ridiculousness of such a statement.

“I’m serious. When I saw you in that field, chasin’ each other ‘round like kids on a playground? I _knew.”_

If that isn’t the stupidest shit he’s ever heard… Daryl huffs and yanks on his shovel for lack of anything else to do.

“You don’t know shit, Rick Grimes,” he growls out. “Shut your ass up and get diggin’. You ain’t gone yet.”

Rick, to his credit, begins to grab the shovel fro Daryl’s grip, but Daryl knows better than to let him start jerking around in the condition he’s in. He doesn’t want to risk Michonne’s wrath or -- _worse_  -- her disappointment. He draws the shovel away from Rick and swats at him with the other hand, earning a genuine, outright laugh from the leader. It’s the freest he’s heard Rick sound in quite a while.

“Okay,” he breathes, smile still in place, “how ‘bout when I swerved the car and--”

“How d’you even know it’s ‘bout him, huh? Maybe I just like it here more. Maybe _I’m_  the one who doesn’t wanna be stuck ‘round that sum’a bitch you’re takin’ on home with ya.”

He didn’t mean to go off like that and make it so serious, it’s just… trying to handle his emotions and work _with_  them has turned out to be harder than he thought it would. He knew it wouldn’t be _easy_ , he’d have started long ago if that were the case. But the thing is that, with Paul, it _has_  been easy. Not at first. Not on that balcony, not even really in that store, but everything after has just sort of fallen into place and fit together with hardly any jagged seems.

Talking to Rick about it seems like he’s screwing something up. Scaring himself into back-tracking, scaring himself deeper into doubt. And he knows that’s definitely not what Rick is aiming to do here, yet somehow that doesn’t make it less weird.

“Daryl,” Rick says low and clear, commanding his attention. He ducks his head to try and get Daryl to focus on nothing but his face and the words that are about to come. “Hey, listen. When the two of you came home, you were practically joined at the hip. And the way you looked at each other? That’s _real._ Michonne grabbed my hand and she said-- she said _“he found it,”_  and I said _“yeah, yeah he did.”_ And _that’s_  when I knew you had somethin’ with him. That’s when I knew what it was. What it _is.”_

Daryl supposes he hasn’t exactly been too discreet about anything, but he didn’t figure the whole thing would have been _that_  obvious. Sure, Tara liked to tease and Carol had been suspicious from the start, but that was different. He didn’t really take the former’s words as anything more than dumb fun, maybe an inkling that something deeper was going down, and the latter? Well, Carol could see right through him as soon as he’d stepped out of Merle’s lingering shadow.

It wasn’t like he didn’t expect Rick to be paying attention, but with so much going on and with Daryl’s lack of preference of anything or anyone at all, he hadn’t even considered that Rick might see something long before even Daryl himself did. Hell, maybe he’d even seen it way back during that car ride home, like he was trying to spin just moment ago. He’d seemed pretty adamant about Daryl giving that little shit a chance…  

He shakes those thoughts away and pulls himself back into the moment, glancing over to meet Rick’s waiting gaze.

“Nah,” he drawls lowly. When Rick frowns, he adds, “That’s when ‘Chonne knew, not you. Don’t count.”

And just like that, Rick’s grin is back full-force, so contagious that Daryl can’t fight his own back.

“Gimme a break, Daryl. You care about him -- _a lot _\--__  that much we can all admit is true.”

“Maybe.”

“You and your _maybe’s…”_

Daryl knows he’s just taking the piss now, knows that Rick gets that as well. Because it’s not just a _maybe,_ him caring about Paul. It’s a complete fucking _yes._

“I’m proud of you,” Rick tells him thickly, eyes big and wet like they were the first time he’d seen Daryl after escaping Sanctuary. The back of his throat burns as his own eyes begin to prickle. He doesn’t remember the last time someone’s said that to him, if they ever even have. “I’m _proud_  of you, Daryl. Of who you are and what you’ve done. You’re my brother. You’re always gonna be my brother. I love you.”

Daryl’s sure the face he makes is an ugly grimace of emotion, but he can’t stop his chin from trembling and he can’t stop those tears from falling in a swell of overwhelming emotion. The only thing he can do is drop his shovel and stride forward, lowering his head to bump into Rick’s shoulder, hiding his face from the world while moving his arms up to wrap around Rick’s lean frame tightly.

Rick’s slaps his arms around Daryl in return, squeezing vice-like until either of them can barely breathe. He’s done enough crying these past few days to last the rest of his damn life, but it’s not from pain or sadness this time and maybe that’s alright. To feel so deeply until you can contain it no longer. It doesn’t have to be bad. It doesn’t have to make him _weak._ It can make him as fierce as Glenn and Rick and Maggie and Paul…

Things change, they always have, but _now_  it’s something he can look forward to.

“Everyone’s split,” Rick mumbles as Daryl lifts his head. “Carol and Morgan are headin’ back to the Kingdom. You’re stayin’ here with Glenn, Maggie, and Sasha. But none of us are far. So I better see you on more than just those tradin’ days Maggie wants to set up. You got it? All of us, we’re still family. Doesn’t matter how long we have, where we are. That’ll never be any different.”

“I know, brother.”

“You’re gonna be busy here and I’ll be busy back home, tryin’ get things in order, but I wanna see you in a few days. Or as soon as you can. Be nice to meet up after we’ve had some time to breathe.”

“Yeah.” Daryl pulls away from Rick’s slackening grip, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “I’ll come by soon, probably have stuff to bring if we go on that run Maggie’s been talkin’ ‘bout.”

“Good. Better bring your boyfriend, too.”

Rick dodges Daryl’s kick to the shin, but just barely. He ends up windmilling to stop himself from falling into the little pit Daryl had been digging before he’d shown up, pushing off from the arm Daryl offers to steady himself. The near-fall doesn’t erase that cheeky grin. Daryl thinks it makes Rick look as baby-faced as he had at the Atlanta camp when they’d first met.

“Man, he ain’t--” Daryl begins -- it is _not_  a whine -- but he’s clueless as to how to finish that sentence.

What is Paul, anyway? That’s the question he’s been dancing around for days. Not his damn boyfriend, that’s for sure, and he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself but it must be something close. Whatever the case, Paul had said he wanted to talk, if not about this then maybe Daryl could find it in himself to bring it up.

He changes tactics for now, feigning a glower at Rick.

“I’mma tell him to beat your ass. He’d do it, too.”

“Yeah, I bet he would. Anythin’ for his _angel.”_

“What--” Daryl flushes despite trying his best not to. He knows Rick hasn’t been around to hear Paul call him that, not except for that very first time with the vest. Dammit. Daryl’s relieved Rick doesn’t actually know it’s become a _thing _.__ “Jus’-- jus’ get on, will ya? Gonna get dark ‘fore you even hit the road, you keep standin’ ‘round out here.”

“I know,” Rick agrees. They both know nightfall is still a handful of hours away. “Probably be leavin’ by the afternoon.” He checks his watch to be sure. “Think you’ll be done by then?”

“Yeah. Should be.”

“Alright. I’ll see you soon. And be careful out here.”

Rick doesn’t begin his walk back until Daryl nods his ascent. Then Daryl is left to watch him leave as he had Glenn, staying still far longer this time. He swipes at his face when he’s certain he’s utterly alone, the dried tear streaks making his cheeks feel tight. The sweat on his body had cooled during his exchange with Rick, causing a shiver to rock through him when a gust of wind sweeps through the trees.

He retrieves his shovel from the forest floor and digs the blade back into the earth, intent on finishing his task finally. All he can think about is what his choice might mean for the future.

* * *

 

Everyone’s on the move as he backs the bus up into the spot it had been resting this morning. But there’s a new gap now, too; another bus moved from the blockade in order to allow a couple of sturdy trucks and a beat-up Sedan to rest temporarily in its place, getting ready for Rick’s impending departure.

One of the truck beds is being loaded up with supplies by Francine and Glenn and a few others, mostly things they’d brought with them after the bout at Alexandria, accompanied by a handful of supplies Hilltop could spare to get them back on the right track.

People are also sliding into the vehicles after saying goodbyes with those around them, readying themselves for what must be a short wait. They’ll be leaving soon, like Rick had said. Daryl chews a rough patch of skin on his bottom lip.

His gaze flicks to Paul the moment he senses his presence near by, eyes trailing after the younger man as he strides side-by-side with Sasha. Flowers are held delicately in their hands, their forms leading a trailing Rosita over to where one of the guard posts had stood not even a day ago. It had fallen in the war, but Abraham and Eugene’s crosses remained miraculously untouched, standing tall and crooked in spite of everything happening around them.

Daryl isn’t all that shocked to see Rosita finally facing the area she had previously set out to ignore. He figures it’s time for her final goodbyes, figures she needs it now more than ever since the man who murdered two of her closest friends would now be living inside the place they called home.

He can’t see any of their faces, but their gaits reveal much. Paul, swift and casual; Sasha, shoulders tight but no hesitance in her steps; Rosita, head jerked back, arms stiff at her sides while her legs carry her mindlessly forward.

But his attention gets quickly drawn away when Aaron, helping a limping Eric, crosses in front of him to get to the Sedan. He closes the few steps between them and reaches for the heavy-looking bag falling off of Aaron’s shoulder, getting a grateful smile in return.

“Don’t suppose you could convince Eric to give us a few more days here?” he grunts, attempting to lower the man in question enough to press him into the back seat once Daryl pulls the door open the rest of the way.

“Not even Daryl’s charms could sway me,” Eric teases, although he sounds just as breathless as Aaron. His face is red and scrunched with discomfort, too. But Daryl knows there’s no talking him out of going home to whatever ended up being left of their house.

Aaron chuckles, rolling his eyes fondly. Then he goes back to fussing a moment later when Eric tries to situate himself into the seat properly.

“Rick said you were staying for good,” Aaron murmurs after a moment. He takes the bag from Daryl gently, plopping it down onto the floorboard near Eric’s feet. “I think that’s nice. You fit in well here. And it seems as if you actually _like_ it. But--” Turning to Daryl, Aaron -- rather awkward and hesitant -- places a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll miss you,” he says. Looking down to Eric, who squeezes his hand, he adds: “We both will.”

Daryl can’t help but snort. He scratches at his head, too, licking his cracked lips.

“Man, it ain’t far.” _And it ain’t like we’re never gonna see each other again._ He holds off on saying that last part, however. He’s never liked promises, especially ones he’s not sure he can actively keep.

“I know.” Aaron grins, giving Daryl’s shoulder a light pat before pulling away. “Things will be back to normal soon enough. Well, as normal as they _had_  been, at least. And with the way our communities came together? We can only get better.”

You can’t fall off the floor. That’s what Carol had told him. But what happens when they drag their way back up to the top? It’ll only be easier for someone to kick them all back down. They can’t wallow forever, but they have to stay vigilante, stay _wise._  And at the same time… Daryl just wants to believe that this truly is a step in the right direction, one that won’t allow them to lose their progression.

“They, um… they were getting ready to bring Negan out, when Eric and I were leaving the medical trailer,” Aaron continues. He shields his eyes from what little sunlight is baring down on them, somewhat avoiding Daryl’s sharp stare. “They were debating how to move him peacefully, in case he tried anything. Carl suggested we knock him out, which isn’t a _terrible_  idea, but Rick vetoed that pretty quickly. Alex offered to escort him all the way…”

Daryl hums, shrugging at the idea. It would make sense; Alex was a big guy, not as tall as Negan but a little wider. He’d be a match physically, with Negan in restraints and with zero back-up. And Alex _does_  know how to fight, even if he got his ass handed to him by Paul during training, but he’s more useful aiding in recovery than he would be taking on a dipshit who just tried to kill them all. They aren’t exactly overflowing with people who have extensive medical knowledge…

Daryl scowls, unable to stop himself from thinking how upset Paul would be if anything _did_  happen and he lost yet another person, one of the few he’s actually close to.

“Should go see what they’re doin’, I guess,” he grumbles, tapping the side of the sedan. “Take it easy. Both’a you.”

“You make sure to do the same, alright?” Eric calls as Daryl starts to back away.

He gives a jerk of his head and then turns, aligning himself towards the direction of the medical trailer. Stragglers surround it, whispering to themselves about what’s happening inside. Great.

Pushing past without a word, he enters through the doorway, pausing to take stock of who’s all inside. Rick, Michonne, and Carl near the farthest wall, with Carol and Morgan standing by those still resting in cots adjacent to the door; Alex and Carson are on either side of a subdued Negan, those beady eyes of black roving over Daryl when he enters fully into the room.

“Heard you bashed Simon’s head in,” that low voice says quietly, lilting with something akin to amusement. The hushed murmurs from the others go completely silent as Negan addresses Daryl directly. “Well, _good_  on you, takin’ a page from the master. Knew you were my favorite for a reason. Don’t say I never taught you nothin'.”

Daryl steps closer in the stony silence that follows a gravelly, sinister chuckle, ignoring the curl of Negan’s lip the closer he gets.

“Funny how things are when they’re in reverse, huh? Got your people all screamin’ and cryin’ when I dropped Lucille on Red, but then you go and do the same _damn_  thing and everyone thinks you’re a god _damn_  hero. Fuckin’ hilarious, ain’t it? You’re just as bad as me.”

“Maybe,” Daryl growls, leaning down to look Negan in the face. Any trace of fear he had for the man back at Sanctuary is now gone, replaced fully with hatred and disgust. “And maybe I’ll do the _same_ to you. Got it comin’.”

Negan barks a laugh, believing Daryl’s threat to be nothing more than an act. Daryl himself doesn’t even know if that’s true, if he would let himself slip back into the animal he’d become outside of Simon’s truck. He could, for Abraham and Eugene and Tobin, Kal and Eduardo; for Denise, who had been caught in the crossfire; for Rosita and Sasha and Tara, for the pain he’d caused Glenn… For himself. For everyone who had suffered because of this war.

The only thing that could and would truly stop him would be the fact that he already knows what Paul’s shocked expression looks like when sent his way; how the younger man had wiped the blood from his face and forced himself to agree that Daryl’s actions had been the only way.

The shining grin takes up nearly all of Negan’s expression, boiling Daryl’s blood further.

“Aren’t you just _adorable._ Too bad Rick says--”

Without warning, Daryl’s hand shoots out, slapping the side of a scruffy cheek roughly. Negan jerks at the stinging hit, the masochistic glint in his eyes turning stormy.

_“Hey,”_ Daryl barks, “You keep your fuckin’ mouth shut or you’re gonna be goin’ back without a tongue, if you end up goin’ back at all. Ain’t no one callin’ themselves _Negan_ now. Just you. And you’d be nothin’ but a pile of ash if most of us had our way. Rick’s the only thing keepin’ your ass alive. You best remember that.”

Daryl’s close enough to see Negan’s cheek twitch, to see that nasty frown pull at his mouth. For a second it seems as if he might grin again, show his teeth to threaten Daryl, maybe even spit on him if he’s feeling extra petty, but he does nothing. Just _stares_ at Daryl in a manner that had once been unnerving but is now nothing more than repulsive.

Then it occurs to Daryl that Negan is actually _listening_  to his advice and keeping his damn trap shut, not letting out a peep even though his expression says he’d like to do a hell of of a lot more. Satisfied by this outcome, Daryl allows himself to stand, ignoring all the eyes focused intently on him. He reaches down instead to feel the knots around Negan’s wrists, checking up on how they’ll hold.

He throws a glance to Rick over his shoulder.

“You didn’t tie these, right?”

“No, why?” he asks with a furrowed brow.

Daryl shrugs, unable to stop himself from thinking about how easily Paul had escaped Rick’s ropes back on the road. They’d expected him to get free eventually, but not as quickly as he did. Rick hadn’t done as good a job as he’d thought.

“You’re shit at knots.”

Rick’s snort breaks some of the tension in the room, even leaving Daryl feeling a little less tense, a little less alien after what he’d just said to Negan. It’s Alex’s words that ease the room the rest of the way into normalcy.

“I guess you should help me get him to the truck?”

Daryl shrugs a shoulder noncommittally even though that had been the whole reason he’d come into the trailer in the first place. But he grabs at one of Negan’s arms while Alex grabs the other, the two of them forcefully hauling the larger man onto his feet. He doesn’t struggle or protest, just sighs as if he’s bored of the whole situation, and so Daryl makes an effort to ignore him now.

There’s no use in getting bent out of shape about something that isn’t going to change. He’s already accepted Negan being kept as a prisoner, anyway. Now he can let himself forget the whole thing.

They follow Rick and Michonne out of the trailer, Carol and Morgan on guard behind them. Daryl doesn’t keep his grip on Negan like Alex does, but he never lets his attention stray away from the threat keeping pace with him. Aaron is still standing where Daryl had left him, looking up from Eric when he feels the group approaching. Daryl spots Paul, Sasha, and Rosita inching closer as well, now flanked by Glenn, Maggie, and Tara. When Negan starts to preen under so many glares, Alex shoves him forward, towards the tailgate that Daryl drops open.

Negan climbs in on his own accord, taking his sweet time getting settled in. Daryl feels as if they should cuff him somehow, stop him from jumping out and running, but they’ve got no such bind hanging around. When Alex begins to press his knee into the grooved truck-bed, Daryl pushes him back, eyes narrowed into slits as he stares at the larger blond man.

“I’ll go,” he grumbles roughly. “You’re better off stickin’ here with Carson. Got people to look after.”

Alex opens his mouth, fully intending to argue, when Rosita cuts both of them off.

“No,” she says resolutely. “It’s a waste of a trip if you don’t plan on staying. I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure you--”

“I _said_  I’d do it,” Rosita snaps, shutting Alex’s inquiry down immediately. Daryl doesn’t try to question how easily he could try to slip inside her head, not with the way she’s already brandishing a hunting knife. He has no reason to believe she would let him overpower her in any capacity. “Are we going or what?”

She grips onto Tara’s arm when a hand is placed on her shoulder, then nods to the other four she steps away from. She jerks her chin at Daryl in goodbye when she passes in front of him, hopping into the the back of the truck with ease and slamming the tailgate back into the place. And then she immediately points the tip of her knife towards Negan’s face, silently daring him to try something. It’ll be a long ride, no doubt.

Many colonists, including Alex, begin to retreat back to whatever they had been doing before when those that had come from Alexandria start shutting themselves into vehicles. It’d be more efficient to take one of Ezekiel’s buses, but then Hilltop would be without any sort of alternative to the panels of walls they’d lost. So for now, they’ll have to squeeze in tight. There aren’t as many this time around anyway; that thought alone makes Daryl lower his gaze.

Rick and Michonne say their goodbyes to Glenn, Maggie, Sasha, and Paul -- shaking hands and hugging, whispering promises and words of gratitude. Carl comes into view with Enid, hands cupped together at their sides. Morgan and Carol have been joined by Ezekiel and his giant cat, and pay the teens no mind as they follow close behind. Gabriel brings up the rear, smiling serenely while choosing to stop beside Daryl for a spell as Judith twists in his arms. Daryl reaches out to swipe his hand across her soft tufts of hair absently, only vaguely aware of the giggles his actions coax out.

He becomes distracted by Michonne drawing him into a hug as fierce as the one she’d given him at the bathroom door, although less tense and followed by a kiss to his cheek. Rick follows her lead and presses his mouth to Daryl’s sweaty hair instead, patting his back as he pulls away. They don’t need words here, they’d already exchanged them back in the woods; the lingering look they share is enough of a second _see you soon._

Carl approaches him next after having left Enid near Maggie and Glenn, his smile crooked and his blue eye bright.

“Hey,” he says in that slowly deepening voice. “My dad told me what you said. I think he might actually consider it. If I’m lucky, I’ll be back here soon.”

“Better behave yourself ‘til then.”

Carl rolls his eye good-naturedly at Daryl’s gruff command. He reaches to adjust his hat, barely having to look __up__  to see Daryl at eye-level. He’s grown so much since Daryl first met him, a boy shifting into a man. It's hard to believe.

“I’ll try,” is what he settles on for a reply. Then his eyes trail away from Daryl to land on his baby sister, prompting him to take her from Gabriel’s hold gently. “Let’s get you settled, huh?” he coos to her.

He, Judith, and Gabriel disappear into the sedan that houses Eric and Aaron, the latter of whom waves through the window at Daryl one last time. Daryl crosses his arms and twists his mouth in return, uncertain of what he should be feeling in this moment.

Watching the cars pull away, watching them _leave_ , brings about a strange entanglement of emotions inside of Daryl’s chest. He’s been away before -- or they have, from him -- but never really by _choice._ The only time it had been was when he’d felt he’d owed it to Merle to follow after him, disappear back into the shadow of his brother that suddenly felt too small to swallow him whole. He’d changed, expanded where Merle had staid trapped in his ways, and Daryl knew he’d made a mistake. He knew that, for once, he’d have to do what was best for himself.

But it _was_  a choice now. Daryl’s choice. And he was choosing not just to form his own path away from Rick’s side, but his own _life_  inside of Hilltop’s walls. He could make this community a home like Rick had done with Alexandria. He could see it as that place to settle the way he’d seen the prison, that initial optimism niggling its way back into where it once existed. And even still, it’d be different now because it wasn’t just some _thing_  but some _one_ that gave him purpose; purpose beyond fighting and surviving, purpose that encompassed living for yourself as much as for others… Because you don’t want to miss one second, not even a bad one, not if you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that clawing your way through will be worth it.

Daryl isn’t naive enough to believe that loss will suddenly cease. Everything and everyone can and still might someday be taken from him, if he doesn’t fall first. But fear and apprehension and indifference can no longer have a white-knuckled hold on him in this _next world._ In this _new_ world, the one they’ve already started shaping into something deserving of hope.

Before he knows it, Glenn, Maggie, Paul, and Tara have surrounded him to watch Sasha and Enid pull the bus that had been acting as their gate back into position. He scans each of their faces, so familiar and solemn in their ways.

But then Paul smiles at him, tender and sure, and Maggie follows his lead with a wide and __happy__  grin of her own. That gets Glenn joining in, her joy too contagious to pass on, and Daryl wonders if he can remember the last time he’d seen his friend look so young and lively… Even with Glenn’s ideals, exhaustion had taken hold and refused to let go. Until now. Tara’s snort of a laugh only leads them further into their strange fog of peace, engulfing them in a weightlessness that Daryl would have previously thought foolish. It only seems irrevocable now. And welcomed.

“Since you’re staying,” Maggie begins after several long seconds of of staring through the dusty bus windows several feet ahead, “I was thinkin’ you might go with Jesus and Tara on their run tomorrow. If you’re up for it.”

“I am,” Daryl answers immediately. She nods graciously at his response.

“Thank you. I don’t want any of you gone for long, just a few days to get us what we need right now, so an extra pair of hands would be good. Glenn said he’d go, but I’m havin’ him head back with Carol, Morgan, and Ezekiel in the mornin’. See what we can help with, as a thanks. He lost more people than any of us…” She sighs, giving Glenn a nod of thanks when he takes her hand. Then she peers between Jesus, Daryl, and Tara with her head raised high. “We got others checkin’ inventory, so I should have a list ‘fore noon tomorrow. Hope that’s not too late?”

“We’ll be fine,” Tara says assuredly. “We’re pros by now. We got this.”

“I know you do.” Turning to Paul, Maggie adds: “Jesus, could you help me and Glenn go over what we have so far? I should start learnin’ how this place really works.”

“Sure,” Paul agrees amiably, always ready to aid Maggie in whatever way he’s able.

But Daryl doesn’t miss the sideways glance the younger man sends his way. Paul’s mouth flattens in an attempt to hide his knowing smile when he feels Daryl still watching even after he turns away. Then he makes a sound, as if clearing his throat, and gestures to Barrington.

“Lead the way.”

Maggie follows his suggestion, moving with unhurried strides towards the big house, Glenn’s hand interlocked with her own. Paul trails after them, leaving a generous space, arms swinging loosely at his sides. When they’re far enough away, Tara’s elbow jabs into Daryl’s bicep.

“So. Found a new home?” When Daryl’s narrow eyes land on her pleasant expression, her brows shoot up inquisitively. “I guess I’m not surprised. Not as much as I should be. It’s kind of the same with me.”

“You stayin’?”

“Yeah. Well, no. Not here,” she adds quickly. Then she sighs, dragging her gaze away from Daryl to turn and look towards the row of buses once more. “I was _going_ to, but… Rosita came up to me last night and asked if I’d come back to Alexandria once we finished the run. She said we should stick together, after everything we lost. Make something with what we have.

“Glenn and Maggie are two of the most important people in my life, you know? But they have each other and -- _here_  -- they have Sasha and Enid, too.” Tara shuffles a little, tilting her head, squinting up at Daryl awkwardly. Even so, she appears self-assured. “It’s like you, Rick, and Carol. He’s going one way, she’s going another, and they both have someone walking the same path. Then there’s you and me. The third wheels. Eugene was kinda like that, too, which is why I guess we… we got along so well…”

Daryl looks away as she trails, voice going soft and focus going distant. She has to shake herself from whatever thoughts had invaded her mind, force herself to smile through the pain as she’s always done.

“Sorry. My point is-- Me going back, you staying here, it all makes sense. And it’s for us as much as it is for them.”

“Who’s __t_ hem?”_

He knows damn well who she means even if she’s only dared mention Rosita’s name. Daryl doesn’t need to be a genius to understand who else she’s been alluding to, who she believes is a reason for Daryl’s desire to stay at Hilltop. She knows it’s not because of Glenn or Maggie or Sasha just as well as he does.

“I think it’s pretty kickass,” is what she chooses to answer with, dark eyes shining in the dull afternoon light. “You and Jesus.”

“We ain’t--”

“Dude, really?” His denial is too reflexive and has been seen through each time. “Remember when I said you don’t bullshit? Please don’t start now. Look, I know it’s none of my business, but we can talk, if you want. Or not. Either way, I just want you to know that you’ve been a good friend. To Denise. To _me._  I wanna return the favor.” The softness of Tara’s expression lasts for only a few seconds before she breaks out into an alarming grin. “And I’m also kind of just nosy, so--”

“I know.”

She laughs at that, punching the spot on his arm that she’d elbowed before. Daryl’s chest quakes with a silent laugh, one that only seems to further her attempts at getting him to talk about Paul.

“It’s interesting, alright? Don’t let it go to your head, but the fact that I’m alive to witness Daryl Dixon _drooling_  over another human being is just--”

“Now who’s bullshittin’?” Daryl grumbles, quick to cut her off. He was not _drooling_  and she can fuck right off with that.

“I’m kidding! But fine, I won’t make you admit with actual words that you and Jesus are basically a _thing._ It’s pretty obvious anyway. And it’s cool. Seriously.”

She offers him her fist to meet with his own, which he does without hesitation or thought, and she nods with satisfaction as their knuckles press clumsily together. Then she turns on her heel and ambles towards Barrington, taking the time to wave to those who pass her by.

Daryl doesn’t know the exact part of their little conversation that she wants him to pay special attention to, but he figures the message in general will suffice, whatever he chooses to make of it.

_I think it’s pretty kickass._  Daryl might be inclined to agree. He and Paul make a good team, but more than that, they make a good __pair__. He’d have to be a dumber piece of shit than Negan not to recognize that, not to admit it it even if only to himself.

With nothing to occupy his hands or his mind for the time being, Daryl sets off to follow Tara’s path towards Barrington with the intent of checking up on their __other__ prisoner. He doesn’t know if Dante’s still on watch Gregory Guard, but he figures the kid might like a break. He can only imagine how much the old shitbag has been running his mouth.

Daryl brushes sweat-dampened bangs from his eyes and heaves a breath. They’re all going to have some very long days in their future, especially with winter only a few months out.

* * *

 

The skies are darkening by the time Dante returns to relieve Daryl of his duties, ready and willing to watch over Gregory for as long as necessary just because Maggie had entrusted him with the task. He’s not as empty-handed as he’d left, however. Balancing a tray in his hands as best he can, he gestures for Daryl to take the bowl of watery vegetables for himself, sure to say it’s courtesy of Carol, and then unlocks Gregory’s door.

The former-leader of Hilltop sits hunched in his bed, suit crumpled and frown deep, arm still tied to one of the posts pressed against the wall. He hadn’t even tried to call out to Daryl once in the hours he’d been sitting in front of the door, spinning the tip of his knife against the wooden boards beneath him.

It’s lucky for Daryl Gregory hadn’t needed to take a piss, or if he had then he’d thought better of asking to be untied. Once Daryl leaves, it’ll be Dante’s problem, and he hopes Maggie’s belief in the kid will be enough for him hold strong and not allow himself to be tricked the way Kal had.

Daryl’s still seated on the floor when Dante shuts the door behind him, only one more bowl of soup for himself. The kid plops down next to him without a word and begins to spoon the food into his mouth almost as quickly as Daryl does.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Dante questions after a short stretch of silence. Daryl grunts his reluctant affirmation, slurping up the broth while keeping an eye on Dante’s squirming form. “How do you… How do you know what you’re doing out there? With all the fighting, I mean. I get that you’ve done it before -- _had_  done it, I guess -- but you make it look so easy. All of your people.”

“Only thing _easy_  is wantin’ to stay alive,” Daryl mumbles. When he lowers the bowl to his lap, the spoon clanks against the ceramic. “And even then you don’t really know. Just do what you gotta, for the people you wanna keep safe.”

“But-- I had some close calls out there. I know it, you know it… And now I just keep thinking about how I might not even be sitting here right now if things had gone just a little bit differently. How do you deal with knowing you’re here and the people you were friends with days ago suddenly _aren’t?”_

Daryl wants to tell Dante that he’s asking the wrong person, that Daryl _still_ hasn’t let himself come to terms with all the people that have been ripped away from them. He tries not to think about them most days, but when he does he can’t stop. And then the _guilt_ and the _sadness_  and the _pain_  just keeps on tumbling back. But Daryl knows that things have changed, too; he’s felt that shift, that release and acceptance. Has felt a renewed sense of joy for just being alive.

“Look… It ain’t fair, y’know? It ain’t ever gonna be _fair_  or easy or nice. Any time you lose someone, you think you know it shoulda been you instead. If it’s true or it ain’t, that don’t even matter ‘cause you’re _here_. Whether you wanna be or not. Wishin’ you could take their place aint’ gonna do shit but get other people killed. So you do what you gotta do, but when it’s time to fight you better know what you’re fightin’ for. Otherwise you’re just another dead man, walkin’ or not.”

He scratches at his head while Dante takes in his word silently, his own utensil clinking delicately against his half-full bowl. Daryl sets his empty one to the side, pressing his palms against the slick wood floor as he readies himself to stand. Dante’s hum keeps him seated a while longer.

“I guess you’ve had a lot of time to think about it,” Dante murmurs. “And a lot of reasons. I just miss them already.”

“S’not a bad thing,” Daryl tells him. And he believes it himself. “Don’t gotta forget, but you gotta keep goin’. Do what you can ‘til you can’t. If you care ‘bout people, that’s how it is.”

Daryl doesn’t really know if it’s a good message to give Dante, but it’s all he really knows. And he thinks that there’s a certain lightness to it now where there hadn’t been before. This is how it is, how it’ll be for the rest of his own life at least. If he really thinks about it, Daryl knows that this is how it’s _always_ been. Maybe people didn’t wake up every day thinking someone they loved could die in a manner of minutes, unfairly and without warning, but shit could still go wrong. Accidents, sickness, war… Maybe people weren’t becoming food for monsters or getting their heads beat in on a regular basis, but that didn’t change the fact that people died whether they were old or not.

Death and fear have always been constants, they’re prominence has only grown in the world they’ve manged to survive. And instead of worrying about the time they have left, he should try to enjoy it. It seems so fucking bizarre to think that, but maybe he’s finally catching on to what he’s been told this whole time.

Rick doing whatever he could to find his family, how that never changed even after the group had; Glenn and Maggie deciding their own fate; Tara never regretting letting herself love Denise; Sasha and Rosita hanging onto what they’d learned from the ones they cared for most and trying to _do_  something with it other than just reminisce. Every single time Daryl thinks of these moments, these reactions and motivations, things start to become a little more clear.

And Paul in the middle of _war,_ deciding that he was ready to open himself up even as the loss around him stacked taller. It was brave, which meant it was also stupid, and it was something that Daryl could understand. It was something he was willing to try, too.

“You know, none of you guys have ever really said what you did before all this. Maggie lived on a farm, Rick was a cop… but everything else is a pretty big mystery. I’ve been trying to guess about everyone, but my imagination must not be the greatest because I really have no clue. Were you a cop, too?”

Daryl snorts, mouth turning down in amused disbelief. It brings him back to the prison for a moment, when he’d gone on that run with Beth’s boyfriend. Zach, that’d been his name. He hadn’t been around for long, but he’d seemed like a good kid, constantly trying to guess what Daryl had done before life changed for everyone. He’d found it funny at first, shaking off every guess, playing along where he could. But then he’d thought about the reaction he’d get if he told the truth, if he’d spoken those words he’d later told Beth in a moment of quiet contemplation brought on by the despair they’d felt from all the blows that had been dealt to them.

__I was nobody. Nothing. Some redneck asshole and an even bigger asshole for a brother._ _

It would be easy to tell himself that this assessment hasn’t changed. It would be instinct. He’d been nobody then and he was still nobody now. But it’s not true, not that last part. And it didn’t matter what in the hell he’d done before, it mattered what he did _now._ Daryl kept people safe the best he could and even when he screwed up, he tried. Tried like Dale and Andrea and Merle, Hershel and Beth and Abraham and Eugene…

He wondered what Paul would say, too. If he thought about Daryl from _before_  like Dante seemed to do. Would he even care? Everything about the man so far suggested that he didn’t cling to the past the way some others had, at least not beyond morality and ideals. He never really offered much up about what he’d done before because it didn’t _matter_. To him, it was all about what skills people had that could work in their new world. It was all about a second chance. It was something to appreciate.

“I don’t think you’re military, either.” Dante’s voice cuts into Daryl’s thoughts, making him turn to look at the oblivious expression on the kid’s face. “I asked Jesus if he’d been, sorta seemed like it. He told me no, but I still wonder...”

Daryl can’t deny that he’s a little bit curious, too, but about all aspects of Paul.

“I drifted,” he tells Dante as he uses the wall to help him rise. “Did a lotta huntin’, drinkin’ with my brother, not much else.”

He expects Dante to be disappointed, to try and pry some more, but all he gets is a thoughtful smile.

“I didn’t do much either, actually. Wanted to, but I had a lot of family. Tried to help take care of them when I could.”

“S’a lot better than nothin’.”

“Hey--” Dante sits up straighter, almost toppling his bowl over. He looks Daryl in the eye, tan skin darker in the shadows of the hall. “Look what you can do now, what you were doing out there, and compare it with my skills.” The kid laughs genuinely, no self-deprecation audible to Daryl’s expert ears. It makes the corner of his mouth twitch a little. “I’ll get there sooner or later, but you’re already cool. You know how to protect people. That’s something I’d like to learn… I feel like Maggie will teach us a lot of shit Gregory never even thought of.”

“She will,” Daryl assures. He knows she, Glenn, Sasha, and Paul will help Hilltop thrive in ways they should have been this whole time and he’s glad he’ll be around to witness it. Grabbing his bowl from the floor, Daryl gestures towards Dante with it, nodding. “Thanks,” he adds quietly. The grin Dante gives him lets Daryl know that the kid understands the appreciation is for more than just the soup.

“Yeah, no problem. And wait-- you’re going on that run with Jesus tomorrow, right? I know it’s kind of a dumb request, but if you come across any comics, maybe nab them for us? Enid’s been showing some of the kids and they seem interested. And okay, I’m interested too. I’m not a big reader like Jesus. I like the pictures.”

Daryl can’t stop himself from chuckling at that. It reminds him too much of the way he joked with Andrea after she’d tried to shoot him.

“I’ll see what I can find.”

“Great. Thanks.”

He hears Dante resume eating as he retreats down the stairs, nearly all sounds disappearing until he reaches the kitchen to drop off his bowl. He’s already missed Carol, it seems, and he doesn’t feel like looking for her. He’ll have to catch her in the morning before she leaves, make sure everything’s alright. He’s feeling like he wants to turn in for now though, so that’s exactly what he sets off to do.

The chirping of the bush crickets is still present and louder than the people quietly shutting themselves indoors, but those sounds will be coming to an end soon. They’ll be getting deep into late fall in the coming weeks, which he’s already dreading. Last winter hadn’t been great to anyone and after what they’ve been through… he just hopes this one will be different. He can still take comfort in the familiar sounds him now, however. Nature filling up the silence. He’d always liked that.

His pace is slower despite the tense hold of his shoulders. There aren’t many people still about in the dark, aside from the guards and those picking up after themselves, but he can still feel eyes on him -- at least one pair -- and he’s reminded of how much he doesn’t miss the staring that seemed to disappear once the colonists realized he was fighting for them as much as his own family.

It’s not until Daryl nears Paul’s trailer that he realizes the gaze that had been following him is coming from another little rectangle just a few down. Squinting through the darkness, Daryl can make out a head of blond hair looking almost white beneath the pale moonlight.

Alex.

What the hell is he looking at? Does he have a problem with Daryl staying in Paul’s trailer? He’d been doing it these last few nights, he doubts Alex only now knows of it. And even so, what’s it to him? Daryl can fee his hackles begin to rise.

“What?” he blurts out, just loud enough for Alex to hear him clearly.

“Nothing.”

“You got a problem?” Daryl goads when the large man’s tired eyes stay stuck on him.

“No, I don’t.”

Yet still he stares, studying Daryl with the aide of a streak of amber light from a lamp propped near the trailer’s window, observing in a way that reminds Daryl too much of Paul.

“You keep gawkin’ and you’re gonna.”

Alex chuckles at Daryl’s harsh words, rising up from the step slowly. Daryl feels a flash of adrenaline run through him, the image of a too-big man approaching for a fight still somehow fresh in his mind. But Alex didn’t puff out his chest or raise his fists like the bikers in the bars Merle took him to, like the Claimers that had circled around him on the road, like his own father whenever quiet Daryl turned a little too mouthy.

The man in front of him only strides a little closer, stopping several feet away to allow more than enough space, and scratches at his nose idly.

“You don’t have to give me the tough-guy act, alright? We’ve been fine so far, doing anything we could to finish this whole mess, but the war’s over.”

“So?”

_“So,”_ Alex stresses, “I think it’s time we clear some things up. I know the way you look at me. Like earlier, with Negan? It might not be intentional, but it’s there all the same, this… distaste. Or maybe mistrust. Like you’re threatened by me.”

Daryl scowls, swiping his hand through the air.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” he growls dismissively, deciding right then and there he doesn’t want to hear another word of this bullshit.

“I do,” Alex replies quickly. Daryl’s back is turned, but he can feel him step closer. At least he knows enough not to try and touch Daryl. “I’m not stupid and I’m not blind. Whatever Jesus told you-- Well, he must have told you _something,_ about me and him and Wes. I won’t be surprised if he downplayed it, but there were some problems for a while. I think we should take a minute to talk about that.”

“Man, I don’t give a shit--”

“You do. You just don’t want to say because you’re jealous, Daryl.”

He turns around at the sound of his name, only having gotten a few paces away, but he decides to backtrack just in case Paul is inside the trailer. He doesn’t want to make this a scene and judging by the crumpled look of Alex’s expression, he doesn’t either.

“You wanna talk? Let’s get one thing straight first. I ain’t _jealous_ , asshole. And I sure as hell ain’t _threatened.”_

“Really?” Alex challenges.

His arms cross over his chest while Daryl’s hang at his sides, hands forming fists instinctively. He’s never had a problem with this man, outside of his own jumbled thoughts, but there might be something going down if he doesn’t watch his mouth.

“Yeah,” Daryl growls lowly, pushing into the space Alex had left between them. _“Really.”_

“I’m not saying this to be an ass, believe it or not. And maybe I don’t know for sure how you feel, but I can guess pretty easily. It’s not that you’ve done anything to make me feel like we’re gonna have a problem, you haven’t, it’s more like…” Daryl watches the large man lick his lips and rub a hand over his bare arm nervously. “Jesus gave me a letter earlier. I don’t know when he wrote it, today or yesterday or sometime last week, and I won’t tell you what it said. That’s personal. But he mentioned you. By name and everything, although he made it clear that nothing was decided between the two of you yet. And after I read it and let myself actually understand, I kept thinking about how he took the time to explain things to me _again_  when he could’ve just swept it away, hoping I’d let it disappear on it’s own. And it made me realize for the first time since things started spiraling down that I… I haven’t been what he still thinks I am, what I’ve always claimed to be: his _friend._

“Any downtime I’ve had during this whole battle has been spent with me going outside the walls, wanting to just bang my head against a tree because of how much of an idiot I’ve been. I could’ve ruined everything I had with Wes and with Jesus just because I got caught up in something that wasn’t even really there. I’m lucky that neither of them hate me and I want to keep it that way, and _now_  I’d like to make sure that you don’t hate me either. If you had a good reason, I wouldn’t be so bothered, but when I say you’re threatened by me I just mean that I know you’re wary about me and Jesus. And if you aren’t yet, then you will be, ‘cause whatever’s going on between the two of you…”

The smile Alex shows Daryl isn’t just exhausted, it’s also a little relieved. It feels like he knows something Daryl doesn’t. It makes him a little uneasy.

“It’s not my business,” he settles on saying, much like Tara had earlier. “But with all the shit that’s gone down, I _am_ still his friend. I care about him and Jesus cares about me. That won’t change. So I don’t expect you and me to be close or buddy-buddy, but I do expect that we’ll at least get along from here on out because you’re part of this community now, you’re part of his life and that makes you part of mine. If you can accept that, then you’ll have no reason to worry. And neither will I.”

“Wasn’t worried…” Daryl mumbles, but he doesn’t let those words fall on deaf ears.

“Well, then all of this is just preemptive, isn’t it? I just wanna be sure we don’t have any unnecessary drama going forward. I wanted to clear the air before the smoke got too think. Things are calming down. I’m in a good place with Wes, Jesus is in a good place with--” _With you,_ he stops himself from saying. Daryl he’s it loud and clear anyways. His throat starts to feel a little dry. “It isn’t my job to coddle you, Daryl. Okay? It isn’t my job to make you feel better about yourself or your relationships, _whatever_  they entail. I’m not doing that. I just chose to lay this out between us, mostly for Jesus but also for myself. Because -- _finally_ \-- I want to move past it. All of it. We survived Negan, we’ve got a new leader, people like yours and Ezekiel’s are sticking by us… I think all that warrants a new start for everyone. So, are we good?”

Daryl feels sort of like a fool now, admittedly, if Alex got all of this out of a couple of glares and a few sentences written by Paul’s hand. But he also feels as relieved as Alex had moments ago, as he still does now, and it’s like another weight as been absolved from his shoulders.

And Alex had been right in saying that it wasn’t his job to tell Daryl all of this, to assuage his insecurities and fears, but he’s thankful the man had done so anyway.

Chewing his lip in thought, Daryl ends up nodding his head, letting Alex know before he even speaks that he appreciates the effort.

“We’re good. Never meant to seem like we weren’t.”

“I know. And I really didn’t mean to start off so harsh, but I know that whole Negan thing had you on edge earlier. I needed to make sure you were actually listening to me.” Alex finally lets his arms drop away from his chest, wide shoulders settling in their proper position away from his ears. He offers his hand out carefully to Daryl, waiting for him to give it a shake.

Daryl thinks back to the talk he had with Tara, before the one with Dante, thinks about how every time she’d offer her fist to bump instead of a hand to grab he’d felt oddly at ease. It’s only for this reason that he offers his knuckles to Alex instead, discreetly pleased when furrowed confusion turns into a cheerful puff of a laugh. He knocks his fist with Daryl’s own genially, their arms dropping away at the same time.

“Since that’s settled, maybe let’s not speak of it again.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Good. I’ll... see you later, Daryl.”

Daryl hums and turns when Alex begins to step away, closing in on Paul’s trailer with just a few short strides. He pulls the door open carefully, hopping up the two short steps, breath puffing out into the frigid air, and quickly enters into the small space.

He’s not surprised to spot Paul sitting propped up on his single mattress, hair damp around his shoulders and a book nestled in his hands, but it does make him wonder how much -- if anything -- Paul had heard from the not-so-quite conversation he’d just been having outside. And while the pull of Paul’s full lips forming into a sweet little smile tugs at Daryl’s insides incessantly, it doesn’t give much away. Other than him being apparently _happy_  about Daryl’s presence.

“Been busy?” Paul asks as he shuts his book, leaning away from the wall. He tucks one leg beneath the other, combing hair away from his face. Daryl takes in every movement and then shrugs.

“I guess. Was babysittin Gregory, mostly. Wanted to give the kid a break.”

One of Paul’s brows quirks up, smirk settling into place.

“That’s pretty generous of you.”

“Nah. Idiot never made a sound, was just sittin’ on my ass for a coupla hours.” Daryl shuts the door firmly behind himself and then inches closer to the couch where the blanket, now folded, and pillow still lie. He flicks his gaze towards the window to make sure he bow is still there. “‘Sides,” he grunts as he drops down onto the cushion, “Dante brought some more soup, so we’re square. You helpin’ Maggie that whole time?”

“Not exactly. I went over the basics with her, how we’ve been operating, what supplies we use the most on normal days, but she caught on pretty quickly. She’s been around long enough to see it herself, really. So I went out to check the graves you and Glenn dug this morning.”

Daryl leans his back against the pillow, eyeing Paul with his head slightly cocked. The younger man looks back at him as he’s always done, but his fingers twitch subtly against the worn paper cover of the book in his lap.

“You put flowers on them, too?”

Paul blinks at him slowly. His teeth rake across his bottom lip.

“How’d you--”

“Saw you earlier,” he supplies, shrugging one of his shoulders.

“Rosita wanted to see them, before she left. I’d put flowers out for Abraham after Sasha buried him, kept it up for a couple of weeks. Sasha needed it then and saw that now Rosita did, too. But no, I didn’t put them on the others. I thought about it, but… We never used to bury our dead. It was like that since I got here, one of Gregory’s orders.” Shifting, Paul sets the book on the table next to the bed, dropping one of his legs away to dangle over the side of the mattress. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ears, the fiery glow from the lamp catching on flecks of gold in the otherwise dark mess. “I never questioned why. It didn’t really matter if they had a grave or a marker, anything we needed to remember them by lived on in us. But seeing all the crosses, it was still this morbidly harmonious moment. And I noticed every cross had a name.”

“You can thank Glenn for that,” Daryl tells the younger man, averting his gaze as he shrugs his vest off of his sore arms. It’s only when he’s ready to rest that the aches come out full force, it seems.

“I will, but I’m thanking you first.”

Daryl looks up curiously, dusted leather crumpled in hand. Heat begins to spread beneath his skin at the piercing gaze settled intently on him.

“Kal and Eddie had markers, even though I-- I know there wasn’t much left to bury. And the etching on those two were a lot different than the others. So--” With his voice dropped low enough to make Daryl’s jaw twitch, Paul whispers: “Thank you.”

He hadn’t thought much of it, truthfully. It had just felt right to make the crosses first, scratch their names clumsily into the wood as a way to make up for the fact that they weren’t going to dig holes for whatever was left of them. He’s pretty sure Kal’s remains had been in the burn pile, he’d been so mashed up by the wall, and Eduardo… They hadn’t gone back to check if any piece of him hadn’t been torn open.

Daryl gives his head a little shake and busies himself with draping his vest across the nearest couch arm.

“Ain’t a big deal,” he murmurs, voice barely audible. He knows by now that Paul hears him just fine. “Felt right.”

It had been warmer inside the cramped trailer than it had been in the crisp weather outside, the steam from Paul’s shower clogging the air. Daryl was sure most of it would have been swept out when he’d opened the door to come in, but somehow his skin felt even hotter. Paul’s gaze remains steadily trained on him, normally light eyes looking dark in the barely lit spance between them.

There’s a subtle shift in his face as he studies Daryl’s, a line between his brows growing deeper and then smoothing out, cheek puffing as he presses his tongue to the inside of it. He even leans back enough press his head against the wall, staring out over his nose to continue his study, watching Daryl in the way that only Paul can.

“Daryl…”

He wants to know what his little ninja is thinking, what he wanted to talk about in the dining room but couldn’t bring himself to say, wants to know what he wrote to Alex in that letter and why that mouth can make his own _name_  sound like something wonderful. Daryl wants to know _everything,_ but he doesn’t ask. Not here. Not yet.

The question he presents to Paul is something else entirely, born from a desire to just stamp that smile into his head long enough for him to be able to see it behind his eyelids.

“You got any cards? I ain’t playin’ any more checkers with you, cheater.”

Paul scrunches his nose and forehead the way Daryl’s seen several times before, showcasing a fond amusement for Daryl’s antics. The younger man shakes his head in denial of the accusation thrown his way, however.

“I didn’t cheat,” he says with a heavy, drawn-out say. “You know I didn’t.”

“Did too.”

“Like I said, If I _somehow_  distracted you, that’s your problem. I was playing fair, trying to have a nice conversation. You’re the one who threw a tantrum.”

It’s hindsight that allows Daryl to know for certain that Paul _had_  been purposefully screwing with him during that lone game of checkers so long ago. He’d been flirting, maybe. Saying shit to catch him off guard, get a reaction like he seemed to love to to do.

_I can do a lot of things, Daryl. And I can teach you a lot, too._

_I was right about you being precious cargo._

_That doesn’t mean you can’t be special._

Daryl had figured as much then, but there was no real way he could have been sure. And he didn’t want to be, really. He never wanted that to even be a thought. He wasn’t ready to answer his own question about whether or not he was looking for such a teasing conversation now.

He shakes that idea away quickly and rises from the couch.

“You said we’d play cards next time, ‘member?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“So, you got any or what.”

Paul chuckles, rising from the bed with a graceful hop.

“I have a full deck around here somewhere,” he declares. But his feet take him straight to a shelf near the bathroom door where he pulls a tattered box from between some scattered books expertly. Spinning around, he holds them up with a little shake, his earlier smirk returning. “I’ll let you pick the game.”

They settle themselves at the round table in the center of the trailer, the legs of the chair scraping the floor as they pull them in and then shuffle forward, sitting across from each other but so scoot in that their shins press tight. Dangerously close to tangled but still somehow comfortable.

Daryl doesn’t pick Poker, although that would be the obvious choice. He doesn’t much feel like trying to suss out Paul’s poker face just yet. But no matter what game he _does_  choose -- War, Bullshit, Crazy Eights, Slapjack -- Paul finds a way to get under his skin. He doesn’t necessarily win all of them, but he absolutely succeeds in making Daryl’s blood boil, which they’re both aware is that little shit’s _real_ goal. It shouldn’t be as fun as it is.

_“You can’t slap every single card, Daryl. The whole purpose of the game is to only hit the jack. Now_ you’re _cheating,”_ Paul tells him through a fit of laughter at one point. It must be at least an hour and a half of switching games after only one round for each is played and finished, with a winner declared.

Daryl growls out a sharp _fine,_ a little more feigned than it could be with how much he’s scowling; the harshness of his tone only makes Paul’s eyes shine brighter with mischief, a look Daryl has begrudgingly come to enjoy too much.

But wouldn’t you know it, the next damn card that Daryl flips over is indeed a shitty Jack, and that asshole slaps it first. Smug as all hell. He can’t stand how much this silly moment makes his chest feel like it’s about to overflow, like all his senses are too dull to tolerate Paul fully but too greedy to turn away. A recurring phenomenon he would never want to change.

So In turn, Daryl’s hand shoves all of the cards off the table, scattering them across the trailer floor in waves of blue, black, and red.

It ends much the same way their game of checkers had: With Daryl crawling across the floor, trying to pick up his own mess. Paul joins him this time, however; shooting Daryl looks that says he might burst out into fit of guffawing giggles at any moment every time he starts to quiet down, murmuring about how 52 Pick Up seems to fit Daryl best.

If their fingers brush more than strictly necessary, sending a slow-melting warmth through Daryl’s nerves, and if their gazes drop belatedly after every lingering glance of shimmering sea to clouded sky, it stays between them. After all, that’s where it matters the most.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter was a mess for me. (And there's like no desus action going on?? how did this happen? I promise, next chapter will be full of desus) After ending up being relatively happy about chapter 9, this one was just like ??? Because I knew what I wanted it to be but, of course, it never works out that way. And I thought about scrapping it, but everything in it felt necessary to me and to go from 9 to what chapter 11 (which is also giving me trouble -_-) will be, without chapter 10 to bridge it, felt like there would just be a gap in the story. (Also, I'm just horrible at cutting things down.) So I kept this in even tho I feel like it sort of devolved towards the end because so much in it is important to the story. I feel like I lost the grip I had on this fic because I stepped away from it for a few days to take a break, but I'm trying to get back in.
> 
> Rick and Daryl interacting is probably my most liked moment of the chapter, yet it turned out being pretty short. Also, cards instead of checkers! That chapter feels like such a long time ago (psst, Paul is the master of distraction and Daryl is a dirty slapjack cheater :P) (I should mention that the conversation with Alex was a long time coming but I sort of failed to give it a better set up in previous chapters because I could never see a way to fit in them having interactions, so I'm sorry of it feels like this came out of nowhere. It had been planned for a while and it was important, and I wanted to include Jesus writing a letter to Alex from the comics, so I went ahead and added it. I'm also iffy about it because I don't want to make Alex out as a bad guy and I definitely don't want to make him out as a character only there to affirm Daryl and Paul's relationship. I mentioned him in previous chapters, mostly through Paul's dialogue, and my intention was to form the situation as both of them sort of being stupid about things before Daryl's group had ever been met. And Alex sort of wanted to get the jump on things because of Paul's letter, which is one of the reasons Daryl is sort of blindsided by the conversation. But yeah, I hope it makes sense.)
> 
> But as always, I really hope you can enjoy and that you end up liking it! The response for chapter 9 was amazing and I loved every single comment. I appreciate it very much. <3


	11. I Love You, Sleepyhead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There's a fallen shore, I know  
> And I'm thinking of home tonight  
> There's a spark in our eyes, but I'm letting you down tonight  
> And so you'll say, "I do, I do what you want me to"  
> You're just in time  
> I was thinking of lines for you  
> I was singing words  
> And now I can't stop  
> Now I can't stop  
> You're just in time to save a life"
> 
> (i love you, sleepyhead | lanterns on the lake)

“Daryl.”

If Daryl was dreaming about something, he forgets as soon as his mind begins to slip into wakefulness.

_“Daryl.”_

The voice is as familiar as the tone, he can already tell. Soft but prodding, incessant, willing to repeat itself a hundred times until it gains a response. When his name is breathed once more, barely a whisper alongside the soft touch against his hair, fingertips moving purposefully to trap some behind an ear, Daryl’s eyelids shift -- one at a time -- slowly open.

The sight of Paul kneeling beside the couch, wide eyes peering curiously down at him as his hand lingers just barely against Daryl’s head, is not a surprise. The only thing that makes him start to jerk up is the fact that Paul’s got his vest on with knives sheathed at his hips. He rarely wears it inside the walls, not unless they’re fighting, not unless something’s wrong--

“Whoa! Daryl, no. Everything’s fine,” he’s reassures immediately, those placating hands pressing firmly against both of Daryl’s tense shoulders. “Nothing happened. I’m just getting ready for us to head out. I tried to wake you earlier, but you were snoring. Wouldn’t budge an inch.” The smile on Paul’s face makes Daryl slap his hands away and sink back into the cushions. It also makes the quick beating in his chest settle into a comforting warmth. “We’ll be leaving soon. I wanted to make sure you had enough time to prepare. Eat, shower, pack a bag -- Whatever you do before a run. I’m gonna go talk to Maggie and Tara now.”

“Noon a’ready?” Daryl grumbles, voice sounding like he’d gargled rocks in his sleep. He’d been out cold, that was for sure. But with Negan gone from Hilltop, the remaining Saviors on hold, people being put to rest and tasks springing into action, his body must have finally decided it was time to relax. He didn’t want to think about how Paul being in the room with him might have had any impact on his newfound feeling of safety or well-being, but he won’t deny the thought if it creeps into his brain. The trailer has been a a secure place for him since he’d busted out of Sanctuary, its current owner akin to a guardian. Daryl is more than capable of fending for himself, but he can’t and won’t pretend that it hasn’t been _nice_ hanging around.

Daryl lets out a breath and gives a jerk of his head, reaching his arms up to stretch, which Paul takes as his cue to stand, that little quirk of a smile still in place. Daryl’s perceptive enough to catch the way the little ninja’s eyes track his movements almost unconsciously.

“Probably not yet,” Paul answers, tilting his head ever so slightly. “But the sun came up about… five hours ago? The place I mentioned before is Leesburg. There was a sectioned area, probably a safe-zone, last time I went in that direction. It was already overrun by then and it could be raided at this point, but--”

“S’always somethin’ left,” Daryl says with a nod, recalling Paul’s words from before.

Paul’s gaze flickers away from Daryl as his arm’s cross loosely over his chest, lips pulling up more prominently at one of the corners as if trying to fight back a brighter smile. If Daryl could see the tips of his ears, he’d bet they’d be colored red.

Paul manages to compose himself easily enough, letting out a slow sigh and meeting Daryl’s unwavering stare with his own once more.

“We’ll have a couple of days to get what we can. I mapped out a few places with Maggie and Glenn yesterday, but I won’t know for sure what we’ll be looking for until I get the lists from her… which I should go do now.”

“Go on then.”

The younger man gives a jerk of his head, reaching up to toy with the bandanna already tied around his neck. Then he steps away from the couch and Daryl, grabbing his coat from the hook by the door and his beanie from the table below it, folding both items against his chest. He picks up a small pack from the floor with his other hand. When it’s adjusted well enough across his shoulder, Paul gestures to the table behind himself where Daryl notices a glass of milk and a plate of jam-covered bread.

“That’s for you,” he says by way of explanation. “I hope you like blackberry.”

Daryl likes it just fine, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything before Paul exits the trailer.

It’s in the younger man’s absence that he notices how bright the sun seems as it shines through the streaked window, how many muffled voices he can hear fading in and out behind the wall. It seems like everyone’s been up and at ‘em for a while now while Daryl’s slept away the morning. He feels a little guilty about that, but at the same time he knows what it’s like running on fumes, how useless he’d be on the road with Tara and Paul -- putting them at risk -- if he hadn’t let himself drop away from the world for a little while. He’d spent the previous day burying corpses and too many days before that fighting even more off; he’s feeling the soreness kicking in already, which might be better than feeling even more exhausted just after waking up.

He’s just… ready for the day. Ready for what comes next.

Daryl doesn’t bother with the shower. He’s still got a thin film of dirt speckled across his skin and he could probably do with cleansing away the day old sweat, but he’s just going to be out in what seems like a sunny day, getting even messier as they scavenge and hopefully clear out the area Paul had mentioned. So when he rises from the couch, stretching his cramped legs out in front of him, he shuffles straight towards the table to grab the food Paul had appointed him.

Everything tastes fresh, that’s the standout. The bread is soft and not stale like the rolls from the previous morning, the jam is just sweet enough to satisfy a craving, and the milk is refreshingly cold. It takes him only a few minutes to finish his meal, then Daryl heads to the bathroom to relieve himself.

He gives his face a quick scrub with soap, to further wake himself up more than anything, and shoves too-long bangs out of his face. His teeth get a quick brush and then he’s out into the main space of the trailer once more, line of sight settling on the plastic bag placed discreetly by his crossbow beneath the window. Daryl approaches it curiously, lifting it up to the sunlight to try and get a peek inside.

The contents end up being various clothing items folded as neatly as the narrow, crinkly container allows. He’s worn some of them already during his extended time at Hilltop, he recognizes one of the shirts by color alone, but others are new to him. The item he’s immediately drawn to, however, is not. It’s the plaid flannel jacket that Maggie had given him out on the steps, courtesy of Paul after their hiccup all those days ago. He hadn’t thought about it since he’d worn it out to scout for outposts with Paul, when they’d circled around to Alexandria only to find Negan behind the walls. He’d had no clue where it went once he’d taken it off, but apparently Paul is perfectly adept at finding Daryl’s belongings and bringing them back.

Daryl shakes the jacket from the bag, fingers smoothing over the fabric. It looks cleaner than he’d left it, feels soft and smells fresh. He grabs the sleeves on impulse, pulling them up to his squinted vision to take a look. The blood he wiped from Paul’s nose is still stained into the fabric, only more faded; almost unnoticeable amongst the predominantly red and brown color scheme, but present all the same. It makes him wonder, for a moment, if Paul had washed it himself and if he tried to scrub the blood away.

The image of his little ninja’s face as he handled the jacket he’d given Daryl makes him huff with amusement. And he doesn’t need it now, he can tell by the temperature of the trailer that it’ll be warmer out today, but he takes it just in case, wraps it around his waist and ties it tight. He could need it out there, most likely will once night falls while they’re on the road.

But other than the flannel and his bow, his gun, knife, and slingshot are all he shoves into various spots around his belt. He’s not going to take a pack like Paul had. If he ends up needing anything, he’s sure his two companions will have it covered. Slipping his arms through his vest and lacing up his boots, he leaves.

Daryl adjusts the strap of his bow across his shoulder once he steps out into the open air, pulling the door shut while hopping off the step. He scans the area, noticing Sasha on top of one of the buses, Enid helping Brianna and her son carry baskets of clothing over to a barrel of water not far from where Earl fiddles with some metal at his stall, Glenn speaking with Andy near one of the side walls. Ezekiel’s tiger is on a leash that’s tied around one of Barrington’s pillars, as if that will keep the wild animal at bay.

Ignoring that sight for now, Daryl turns to look out over the rest of the ground. He can make out the tip of Eugene’s cross in the distance, which compels his legs forward, into its direction. He can see the flowers Paul and Sasha had placed atop the mounds once he gets close enough. They’re green and still looking somewhat lively, but that will fade in no time. They’ll die, too… just like every living thing. He supposes there’s a way to make peace with it, that perhaps Paul and Sasha placing these flowers is just one of those many ways. Just like he supposes that’s what he’s here for now.

Daryl runs his thumb across the twined wood marking Abraham’s grave, across the loopily carved name at the front, but then his focus shifts to Abraham’s. The lettering here is small and steadier, appearing as if whoever etched it in -- Sasha, he assumes -- took great care with it. And fuck if that doesn’t still hit him, losing something before it could even get started, what you wanted and deserved snuffed out of existence and left merely as a dream or a distant __what-if__. He’d done a damn good job of hiding just how much losing people hurt in the beginning, even from himself, but now he feels everything just like Paul does. Only this time he’s waiting to see if it’s as much of a gift as it is a curse.

_You ever think about it? Settling down?_

He hears it in his head just as loudly as the day Abraham sent that line of questioning his way. Quietly, without the sarcasm and disbelief he’d once used, Daryl asks the dirt: “You think shit’s settled?”

If Abraham can hear him -- well, Daryl doesn’t know, is still uncertain of what happens once you’re gone. But if the answer forming in his gut is anything to go by, then he doesn’t need anything else.

Daryl heaves a slow breath. Breeze tickles his face and bare arms, sways baring branches and tufts of dry grass. He reaches out to rap his knuckles against the marked wood standing tall, above the seven perfect letters, and nods to himself.

_“Wish you were here, man,”_ doesn’t cover it, but he whispers it into air anyway, letting the wind carry it away as if he hadn’t said a word at all. He doesn’t want to be caught over her, he swears he could feel Sasha’s eyes darting over to him every so often as it is, so he straightens up and starts to stride back the way he came.

His next trip is to the steps of Barrington. Daryl nods to Earl on his way, twisting his mouth into something of a smile when the older man triumphantly holds up the shield he’d been working on. Daryl tries to imagine who, out of everyone around, would use the thing in a fight. The only one sane and careful enough would probably be Aaron, if he’s honest. Maybe if he mentions it to Earl…

The tiger growls a little as Daryl closes in, snapping him back to attention. He eyes the big cat suspiciously, drawing closer when she stills her restless pacing. Maybe he’s just asking to get mauled, but he’s seen the thing in a fight; she’s somehow never attacked anyone who wasn’t an enemy, at least from what he's witnessed. She just tried to protect her master. In a way, Daryl could relate to that, not only being treated as a wild animal but also having a predominate protective instinct that called you to do whatever necessary to keep the people you cared for safe. Was he really trying to relate himself to this beast? Daryl figures it’s not as far-fetched as it should be. And, very slowly, he lowers himself onto the step a few feet away from her leashed position.

He’s not a threat and he knows -- or hopes, at least -- that she can sense that. She’s as smart as she is ferocious, but Daryl’s always been decent with animals. No matter what Rick says about Nervous Nelly, it was that damn snake’s fault he got bucked off. And he didn’t _like_  killing those dogs to eat, he’d always liked dumb mutts the most, but it was necessary. Trying to pet a fucking tiger was very much _not_  necessary, but Daryl never exactly shied away from testing the limits. Not usually, anyway.

Tilting his head down to stare at her through his hair, Daryl begins to raise a hand, letting large nose bump his fingers when she draws nearer. Her short breaths fan against the pads of his fingertips, fur caressing his palm, and faster than he thought she starts bumping her fluffy head into his touch. He keeps it open and careful, letting her do most of the work with only a little bit of his added pressure, and the moment leaves him feeling far too pleased. When she lets out a contented little growl, he uses his blunt nails to scritch around her ear.

“Ah!” a voice booms from behind.

Daryl jerks back a little, turning to glance up at Ezekiel’s joyful expression. He isn’t the only one, however. Morgan and Carol are at his flank and both wear smiles as they process the scene they’d just happened upon.

“Shiva’s made a new friend in you, Daryl!” Ezekiel continues happily. He moves his cane from one hand to the other in order to pat his tiger’s head lovingly. “This pleases me greatly, as it does Shiva.”

“Kinda thought you’d be good with her,” Morgan observes. He holds his stick more loosely at his side, white shirt crisp and clean around his torso.

Carol looks renewed as well, although he notices that she’s wearing a floral pattered shirt beneath her jean jacket. Back to her old ways, it seems, at least in the ways that matter. When she catches him staring, she smiles a little wider, silently enjoying the shake of his head. He doubts she’ll take up that Little Suzy Homemaker act again, but hanging around a _King_  could encourage her to play pretend once more. However, Daryl knows that Carol was right about there being more to King Ezekiel then he shows the world and even if Daryl never sees this hidden depth, he at least knows that anyone who has a tiger for a pet can be marked down as alright in his book. And the fact that he helped them win the war against the Saviors is a big plus as well.

“Headin’ back?”

“Yes,” Ezekiel answers simply. “We must return to our Kingdom and rule once more. The war is over! And now, we shall prosper. We have said our goodbyes to Jesus and so I will leave your friends to say them to you.” With a nod for Daryl, Ezekiel turns to glance briefly at Morgan before setting his sights solely on Carol. “Meet us at the north wall when you are finished. We will be ready for our leave once you arrive. Come, Shiva--”

Undoing the leash from around the pillar, Ezekiel holds onto it and leads Shiva away, guards that had been hiding around the side of Barrington suddenly popping out to escort him away, over towards when Glenn awaits. Daryl can’t help but shake his head at the antics of Carol’s _King _.__ It’s an odd sight, an odd match, but there’s something light about it. Something __good__. Tara had claimed that Daryl and Jesus made sense, so it would only be fair to acknowledge that so, too, did Carol and Ezekiel.

“Well--” Morgan takes the steps carefully, turning just enough to see Daryl clearly. He brings his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun as he says, “We’ll see you soon. Come ‘round if you need somethin’, Daryl. If anyone does. I’d like to help.”

“Thanks. Hey--” Daryl calls out once Morgan begins to turn away. “You need somethin’ out there? Be gone for a couple days. Got a lotta time to look out.”

“No. No, I’m--I’m good.” Morgan’s mouth stretches into a smile that relaxes his face into the usual peaceful friendliness Daryl had come to know. “Thank you, though. I’ll check up on Alexandria in a few days, maybe stop by to let you know how things are going. I know you’ll be busy here, with Maggie and Jesus and everyone else, gettin’ things back in order.”

“A’right.”

Morgan nods and gives a short wave, holding his staff solidly as he retreats to Hilltops entrance, where Ezekiel had disappeared. It leaves him sitting in silence for a long while with Carol standing at his side, leaning with her arms crossed against the pillar Shiva had been tied to. She doesn’t make a sound until Morgan is completely out of sight.

“You’ll be careful out there,” she says rather than inquires, low and ineffutable.

“Always am,” Daryl replies. That claim has her looking down at him with an exaggerated frown.

“You’re not. But you will be.”

“You ain’t gonna come ‘round here actin’ like a queen,” he jokes, pulling pack of smokes from his vest pocket, smacking it against the heel of his palm until a single cigarette slides out. He’s still got his box of matches and so he strikes one against the edge, lighting up with a hand cupped around his mouth. “Might be one over at the Kingdom, but here? We’re still the same we’ve always been.”

Carol laughs quietly at that and eases herself down beside Daryl on the steps. Her elbow nudges his arm and so he takes the cigarette from his lips and offers it to her, puffing out smoke when she takes it from his hand.

“We are,” she agrees, “which means you’re still you, and I _know_  you. If things go south out there, if you don’t get everything you think you should or -- god forbid -- something happens to Jesus or Tara, you come back when you’re supposed to. You hear me? We don’t need you playing hero on top of everything else. Just… come back safe.”

Daryl turns his head to get a good look at Carol’s expression, finding it not as schooled as it could be. There’s worry around her eyes, pinched at the edges of her mouth as smoke blows from her nostrils. She doesn’t shy away from his gaze, nor his from hers, and they share one of their many moments of quiet understanding.

Breaking the silence, Daryl slips the cigarette from her fingers to press against his mouth again, hesitating just long enough for his fist to brush her arm and for him to promise:

“I will. And you--”

“I will,” she says gently, grabbing his thick hand in her smaller one. Both are just as blistery and worn. Familiar.

They pass the cigarette between them a few more times, dwindling it down to the butt. Then Carol stands, plants a kiss against his forehead, and takes the same path towards the buses guarding Hilltop’s entrance that Ezekiel and Morgan had. He doesn’t stay long enough to watch _her_  disappear. Even though he knows she’ll be okay and that he’ll see her again, he can’t bring himself to watch her walk away another time.

Daryl drops the butt to the dirt, reaching for the door of Barrington as soon as he’s on his feet. It’s far too stuffy inside, air hot enough to feel uncomfortable. He hopes the rooms have their windows open, at least, otherwise these people might just suffocate.

Voices rise from what used to be Gregory’s office, something like a muffled laugh reaching Daryl’s ears. He creeps closer to get a better listen, wanting to make sure he’s not interrupting something before he decides to knock. As soon as his knuckles hit the door, Maggie calls for him to come in.

She’s leaning against Gregory’s desk with Tara and Paul in front of her, making a triangle. The smile lighting up her face only gets brighter when her eyes land on Daryl’s form as he enters fully into the room.

Paul’s coat is now on, as well as his beanie, and that bag is strapped to both of his shoulders. His gloved hands hold smooth paper; the lists they’d been working on. Tara stands at the ready, too. She has her own lumpy backpack hanging off her torso, a pair of sunglasses stuck to the collar of her sweatshirt.

“We goin’?”

“Yep,” Maggie answers. She pushes away from the desk, leaving her cap strewn across a messy spread of paper, and steps to center herself between her three visitors. “Just wanna give you a rundown. You’re takin’ the RV, Sasha pulled it out front for y’all earlier. It’s got enough space for the three of you and enough space for the things you’re bringin’ back, but I want you to take a truck, too. Glenn was out there tryin’ to get it rigged up for a tow. Helps conserve fuel that way.

“Jesus marked some spots on a map he thinks are worth checkin’ out on the way to Leesburg. And you got the lists. Everythin’ on the white sheet is top priority, stuff on the yellow’s more ‘bout pickin’ it up if you see it. But don’t go outta your way. I’m givin’ you the rest of today, tomorrow, and the day after to do what you can. Only want you gone two nights though, okay? I don’t wanna send people out lookin’ for you, but I was talkin’ with Glenn and he says that if you’re not back by noon the fourth day then we should assume the worst and he’ll head a search himself.”

“We’ll be fine, Maggie,” Paul soothes. He sounds as if repeated this line more than a handful of times but is still gracious enough to accept her worry.

“You and Glenn best focus on keepin’ things runnin’ ‘round here,” Daryl suggests. “Do somethin’ with Gregory. He’s too quiet, might try and start shit up again.”

“I’m startin’ to wish Rick took him, too,” she jokes with a heavy sigh. Daryl thinks it’s safe to assume there’s some truth to her statement. “Anyway, we’ll be fine here. Do what you need to. And if that safe-zone looks like too much to handle, come back and we’ll plan again. We need supplies, but we need to be smart, too. We have more an’ enough people to help out.”

“We’ll figure it out when we get there,” Paul agrees.

That prompts Maggie to hug him first, her thin arms wrapping strongly around his body, palms flat against his back. He doesn’t hesitate to embrace her back.

She pulls Tara in next, whispering something that makes them both laugh. Daryl narrows his eyes, especially when Paul turns to him with an equally confused expression, but neither of them comment on it. And when Maggie approaches Daryl last, he pulls her in close enough to rest his cheek atop her head for a few seconds. He can feel her hand rubbing up and down his back, over the faded wings of his leather vest. They smile closed-lip at each other when the space between them expands once more.

“See you soon.”

“Peace!” Tara grins, slipping the shades onto the bridge of her nose. Maggie grins at her friend and positions herself against the desk where she had been leaning when Daryl walked in.

Paul grabs onto Maggie’s arm the way he’s done several times before, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and then he follows Tara out the door, throwing Daryl a glance as he passes. He doesn’t waste time picking up the rear, offering Maggie a simple nod just before he closes the door.

They get a few waves on their quick trek across Hilltop’s yard. Enid had smiled and Sasha had called out for them to have a safe trip, but most everyone else let them be without lingering or wasting time. It’s not until they reach the RV outside the gap in the Barricade that a voice shouts for them to wait up.

Alex jogs their way with a small basket tucked against his chest, the short hairs flopping against his forehead looking almost blindingly pale in the sunlight beaming down on them. He reaches them rather quickly, eyes darting over each of them, and presses the basket into Paul’s waiting arms.

“Wes wanted to make sure you had some stuff for the road,” he explains. “There’s fruit, vegetables, bread, and a couple canteens of water. It should be a few days worth for all of you.”

“Are you sure you don’t need it here? Maybe half--”

Alex shakes his head, interrupting Paul’s attempted debate.

“We’re fine. For now. But you’ll be doing a lot out there… You need the energy. Just take it.”

_“I’ll_ take it,” Tara offers, stealing the basket away from Paul with an awkward smile.

Her attempt to break the slight tension isn’t unsuccessful, and so Paul allows himself a quirk of his lips as well. Daryl figures that whatever had been in that letter was even deeper than Alex let on to him the prior night.

“Thank you, Alex. And thank Wes for us, too. We appreciate it.”

“He knows already, but I will.”

Daryl glances away when Alex’s arm shoots out and then drops like stone, trying his best to slacken his expression so Alex can no longer call him on unintentionally looking like a jealous asshole. He can see through his peripheral Paul reaching out mercifully to give Alex the hug he’d aborted. It only lasts a second or two, but it seems enough to appease both of them. And when Daryl turns to face forward once more, squinting past Alex’s shoulder, he accepts the deep nod sent his direction with a jut of his chin.

Alex doesn’t jog back the way he came like Daryl thought he would. He stands by the gap instead, shading his eyes to get a good look at Tara and Paul stepping up into the trailer, watchful gaze no doubt trailing towards Daryl to watch him check the tow-bar hooking an old Ford to the back of the RV. Maggie mentioned that Glenn had done the job and so Daryl isn’t as thorough as he would usually be, trusting his friend’s skills when it comes to all things concerning representational vehicles. Dale had taught him well.

Daryl ducks into the vehicle, slamming the door tightly, and strides towards the the benches on the left wall.

“All clear?” Tara asks from over her shoulder, and also from the driver seat, as Daryl drops his bow onto the table. He also notes that Paul is in the passenger seat, gloved hands turning pages in a binder full of cd’s.

“Yeah, let’s go already.”

“Buckle up!” she calls out, just for _something_  to say because neither she nor Paul nor Daryl himself reach for any sort of safety belts. They’d just be a hindrance.

Then Tara twists the key inside the ignition and suddenly the engine sputters to life, the vehicle beginning a slow crawl through the mud. She turns the wheel to help straighten in along the dirt road, their bodies swaying slightly with the motion.

It’s not until Hilltop is fully out of sight that Daryl leans forward and taps his fingers against the tabletop to get Paul’s attention.

“Said you marked stops along the way, right? So where’re we goin’ first?” he asks once the younger man turns away from the plastic pages in his lap.

“Springfield,” he answers. “It’s about fifteen, twenty minutes from here? Not too far out, but I know they’ve got more than one drugstore. We’re bound to find a few things from the list.”

Daryl hums, reaching forward to take the folded map from Paul’s hand when he offers it. He spreads it across the table carefully, smoothing out the folds, bringing a pinky up to his mouth to bite the nail idly.

There are far too many markings on this map; he recognizes it as the one they’d used in the kitchen of Barrington, trying to formulate a plan of attack against the Saviors. But the different styles of writing are distinctive enough for Daryl to recognize. The letters that make up the sprawled _Springfield_  are scribbled in some kind of neat messiness, the S far bigger and loopier than the letters that follow. It doesn’t look like Maggie’s flowery, almost illegible words or Glenn’s chicken scratch, both of which also litter the paper. If he’d had to guess it was Paul’s, he wouldn’t have gotten it right, and yet now that he knows he thinks that it couldn’t be anyone else’s. It fits him too well. Neat, strange, imperfectly perfect, and the complete opposite of what Daryl’s own lazy notes would look like.

His tangent of a thought ends abruptly the moment he catches sight of Paul moving. Looking up from the map, he watches with suspicion when a cd gets placed into the dashboard and a dial gets turned, raising the volume before the music even crackles to life. And when it does, what assaults their ears is: _dom dom dom dom, dom de do be dum…_

“You’re a fan of oldies? Seriously?” he can barely hear Tara asking incredulously.

“They’re classic for a reason,” is all Paul replies.

He shrugs one shoulder and then slaps the binder closed, turning to drop it behind his seat, which is the prefect time for his gaze to lock onto Daryl’s from where he sits slouched against the wall bench.

_“Well, I love, love you darling. Come and go with me. Come home with me, baby I’m to see. I need you darling, so come go with me..."_

The old voices warble throughout the vehicle, emphasizing the smirk Paul wears. He’s heard this before, of course he has, and while he can’t say for sure that he particularly likes it -- he doesn’t _dislike_ it, there might be a little bit of a soft spot somewhere in the middle of whatever songs did catch his fancy -- he has a hard time believing that it’s something Paul would listen to. Then again, there are a lot of mysteries still surrounding his little ninja. Daryl kind of likes it that way.

Whatever the case of tastes, Paul’s irises twinkle with unreserved and familiar mirth, and that alone would be enough of an excuse for Daryl to tolerate anything… Except, perhaps, Rick’s shitty choice in road tunes.

* * *

 

True to Paul’s word, Tara stops the RV some twenty minutes after leaving Hilltop, parking it in the lot of a an old drugstore. Cars are abandoned every which way, smashed into each other and blocking exits. There’s one sticking out halfway through the building’s window, shards of glass still sprinkled across its hood with a limp body in the driver’s seat.

Daryl pulls the blinds away to offer himself a better look around. He notes the few stragglers stumbling about, growling as they sway between heading into the street or over towards the still-warm engine of their RV. He ignores them in favor of giving the building a more thorough once over.

Aside from the gaping, jagged storefront window, the glass on the metal door is also shattered. It takes away some of their safety, making their option of locking any possible herds hanging around inside pretty much invalid, but it does allow them an easier escape if needed. In and out, just like that. Still, they might have a better time around back, if things are more intact around the corner.

Papers crumple in Paul’s hands, but Daryl keeps to the window, mapping it to his mind the best he can.

“I’m guessing a lot of Maggie’s prioritized items can be found here,” he says lowly, moving to join Daryl near the bench. He bends his head to see what Daryl sees through dirt and dust as he continues. “Batteries, antiseptics, soap, condoms, bottled water, toothpaste…”

“So, pretty much grab anything?” Tara clarifies.

“Exactly.”

Daryl grunts at Paul and lifts his crossbow from the table, slinging across his shoulder and unsheathing his knife.

“We goin’ in through the front?”

“I’m a fan of the back door, personally.”

Daryl’s mouth, which opened in mid-reply, snaps shut as Tara’s sudden snort startles him. Paul bites his lip, looking almost _guilty,_ and--

“Is this how you talk to him when no one’s around?” she questions, mouth twisted in simultaneous disgust and hilarity. “God, I’m in for a _long_  couple of days.”

Daryl shoves Paul’s shoulder, pushing past him before either can bear witness to the heat beginning to color his cheeks. If Paul is back to flirting in ways that Daryl only sometimes catches onto, and in front of Tara no less, then they really _are_  in for some long days ahead. He’s sure he’ll get used to it, whether he wants to or not.

He’s the first to exit the RV by pushing the door open ever so slightly, giving a quick sweep of the surrounding area before dropping down to the pavement. He holds his knife up in front of his chest, blade pointed outward and ready, and quickly swoops around to the side of the vehicle to allow Paul and Tara to follow suit. They have their weapons at the ready, as well; Tara’s hunting knife hovering below her chest, Paul’s daggers jutting out from where he keeps them positioned by his hips.

The playfulness the younger man had exhibited the whole ride over has vanished in an instant. His forehead is creased with concentration, eyes open wide with unblinking concentration. Tara isn’t too far off, although Daryl has always taken her _determined_  expression as something inherently worried. Paul just looks calm, ready for anything, and that in itself spurs Daryl into moving.

They give a quick nod to each other and then spread out across the lot, hacking and slashing into decaying skulls. Tara’s fingers sink into thin clumps of hair, forcing snapping jaws away from her face while her hunting knife slides into the scalp above a half-torn ear. Paul jumps into a kick, knocking an advancing walker to the littered pavement and twisting to tear his blade into a temple. When that arms shifts upward, his left one maneuvers out, his second dagger spinning with a twist of his wrist to end the hissing of a second corpse leaning his way.

Daryl doesn’t slouch either. He takes on three of his own, kicking the legs out from under one in order to grab another around the neck, his knife finding a temporary home in the base of a skull. That body drops and so he lifts the bow from his shoulder, holding on tight with both hands and swinging to the right. When the geek starts to stand itself again, growling like a rabid dog, he takes another swing from bottom to top, knocking the already loose jaw even looser and flattening the rotting flesh to the ground. He stomps on the head with his boot and, in that same motion, recollects his knife from the gray flesh beside the mess of splatter, taking an extra step to turn and fling his weapon as a projectile. It lands itself squarely in the forehead of the one that overcame its struggle to get back on two crooked, sending that one down permanently as well.

It takes the trio only a handful of minutes to clear the roamers out of the lot, none of them working up too much of a sweat, and then they regroup into a cluster and make their way slowly to the broken entrance of the drugstore.

Paul steps to the front and ducks down first, holding onto the jagged frame with a gloved hand. His boots crunch over glass while stepping forward to enter the store. He didn’t bring his pack out of the RV, but he pulls a flashlight from one of his coat pockets, clicking it on to dimly illuminate his immediate surroundings. Daryl doesn’t waste time ducking in after him, paying extra mind not to scratch his bare arms on any jagged objects on the way. When he’s beside Paul, taking the flashlight when it’s offered, he twists at the hip just enough to make sure Tara is safely stopped behind him.

“Sweep the place?” Daryl questions in a throaty whisper. The flickering beam of pale yellow from his plastic flashlight shows him the counter tops to his right and the shelves straight in front.

“We’d waste some time,” Paul answers even quieter, “but it’d be safer in the end. More efficient. I’m up for it.”

“Well, I’d like to advocate the _no splitting up_ policy then. Better together and all that teamwork jazz, right?”

Tara’s voice is right in Daryl’s ear, making him turn to give her a frown, but he can’t argue with her idea. Daryl’s never heard her talk about what exactly went down on her run with Heath after the satellite station, he just knows that she came back and he didn’t. Sticking together is a good idea if they’re set on clearing the place out before scavenging whatever supplies await them in the store’s dark depths.

“One wall to the other,” he whispers, shuffling past Paul and veering left. “C’mon.”

Two more beams of light join his low on the scuffed tile floor, indicating that Paul has pulled out another flashlight and that Tara has joined him. They dart their little circles around slowly, getting a preview of overturned shelves and scattered products, a couple of stinking corpses sprawled out in various aisles but none of them so much as twitching. There’s a faint sound of flies buzzing in the distance and the treads of their own shoes occasionally emitting a squeal or a crackle atop broken items, but the place is eerily quiet otherwise.

They start at the left like Daryl suggested and move on at a quick but quiet pace to the next aisle, scoping the farthest wall with their lights and waiting a minute or so in between each new section to listen for noise. One of the lifeless bodies they encounter tries to peel itself from the floor when it senses their movement, but Paul acts swiftly, killing the walker in the middle of it trying to wrap bony fingers around the ankle of his pants.

Daryl motions for the younger man to take the position in front of him, wanting to put his niggling nerves at ease by being able to __see__  him first and foremost. Paul doesn’t question the change in position, Tara had taken the lead a few aisles back, he just offers a timid smile and squeeze between Daryl and the shelf at his back. The space is more than big enough for him to pass through without touching, they’d have even more room if Daryl stepped out of the center, but he stays where he is and holds his breath when Paul’s hand ghosts over his stomach, causing the muscles there to involuntarily twitch.

The contact lasts for mere seconds, the connection of their gazes barely any longer, and then Paul is turning the corner and Daryl is following him, both of them refocusing on Tara as she strides some several feet ahead.

The disconcerting quiet is gradually broken the closer they get to the farthest wall. With low, gagging groans notifying them of at least a handful -- probably more -- camped out around the pharmacy, the three opt to to take a peek around the last shelf. They’re greeted with a sizable amount of mindless shufflers, but nothing unmanageable, nothing they haven’t taken on before.

They work well as a team, the three of them together. They should by this point, but it’s always a nice revelation. Tara is fidgety with her movements, fearlessly afraid, letting that guide and push her forward to protect Daryl and Paul as they work to return the favor. Daryl sticks to a distance at first, firing his arrows into the crowd to keep the group at bay. When he starts running low, he edges into the fray to slash and shove, recollecting used arrows and firing them once more. Paul -- well, when he can _see_ Paul clearly, he becomes fascinated.

It’s silly to think that a kick to a chest or a jab to the back of creatures that want to tear flesh from your bones could be effective, but Paul has always made it work. He gets them off kilter this way, pushes them off their marks and makes for an easier kill. Daryl had witnessed the little ninja’s moves against living targets, as well; even more dangerous, but just as effective, so long as the younger man could get the drop on someone. And Daryl now knows how much concentration and effort those gracefully deadly movements take, which offers him a level of respect he hadn’t used to feel.

The only injury Daryl sustains is a possibly minor bruise when he bangs his back into one of the shelves, but he’s fine other than that and so are Paul and Tara. The floor around them is covered in bodies, the stench barely registering in his mind as he huffs a breath, but now they’re the only ones present in the main layout of the small store. He doesn’t see a point in checking any back rooms or toilets, so they decide to leave those doors closed in order to begin the trips first scavenge.

Tara grabs baskets from the stack near the back door, giving them one to carry each. She announces her plan to return to the left side of the store for the womanly hygiene products, leaving Paul and Daryl to divvy up the aisles to the right and center.

Paul turns to Daryl to ask, “Do you wanna stay back here or head towards the center?”

“Search the middle, I guess,” he decides. The signs above those aisles seemed to indicate more useful products. The section they were at now housed the pharmacy, but the surrounding walls were either refrigerators or stacks of vitamins.

“Alright. Here--” He hands Daryl one of the lists, the white one Maggie had said was priority. Paul probably had it mesmerize by this point and Tara was set on grabbing whatever she thought was of interest, so Daryl takes the note without hesitation, the soft leather of Paul’s gloves lingering against his palm. Pulling away like any normal person seems out of the question when Paul’s looking at him the way he is, eyes too lidded for their current mission. Daryl can feel his skin begin to prickle and he has to suppress that meddlesome urge to shiver for no reason. He doesn’t shiver, rarely even when it’s cold, and Paul’s gaze is anything _but._

It does take his memory a moment to kick in and prompt to remember that Paul has, indeed, made his body react in strange ways on occasion. When he’d grabbed Daryl’s neck, fingers digging into the hair at his nape just before he’d leaned and then again straight after when he’d pressed their lips together; When he’d witnessed Paul begin to unravel in Alex’s trailer, their faces pushed together, breaths clouding in the cracks of space between them; In the shower, when Paul’s hands worked soap through his hair and traced his skin with a desire to learn about Daryl’s past through images of his own choosing.

He’d always had strong reactions to the man who called himself Jesus, ever since they’d met. He supposed pointing a gun to the man’s head and shouting at him to get back as a first impression would do that to him, but he was starting to understand that Paul’s reactions to _Daryl’s_  presence were just as powerful.

His eyes drop down to Paul’s mouth when his lips part, tongue licking before teeth sink against the plush skin. Then Daryl looks away rather than back up, focusing on blood splatter near their feet. It’s then that Paul pulls his hand away, leaving the list fully in Daryl’s grasp, but he doesn’t move from the charged bubble locked around them.

“Alex told you about the letter.”

Paul’s voice is almost a rumbling murmur, quiet just for the sake of it, wrapping around Daryl’s head like a tangible wisp ready to draw him ever closer. But he frowns and looks away from the red splotches on the linoleum to study Paul’s neutral expression. It’s hard to catch, but he notices the way Paul’s cheek extends slightly, his tongue pushing on it from the inside. It’s less obvious than Paul wringing his hands as he usually does, but if it’s a tic of some kind than Daryl will burn it into his mind for future reference.

“What, you eavesdroppin’ again?”

“You’re loud when you’re angry.”

He’s smirking, but the lines around his eyes are pronounced with something deeper than mirth. Whatever Paul is worried about, Daryl can set him at ease.

“He just wanted to talk, so we did. Said you wrote him somethin’, mentioned me. That’s it.”

“Yeah. That’s about all I heard, too.”

Daryl gnaws at a loose piece of skin, mimicking Paul’s watchful gaze, darting it all across his face. There isn’t a wall between them, there hasn’t been for a long time, but the gates aren’t as open as they were the previous night or the one before. Something’s on Paul’s mind, but he’s dancing around it. Keeping them both at an edge despite their feet pointing towards each other, ready to move. And for all of Daryl reservations about _feeling_  and taking something he doesn’t deserve or is too skittish to try for, there’s only so much you can strategize and ponder.

If they were going to discuss this -- whatever Paul had written to Alex about his intentions with Daryl, whatever he’d wanted to say at the other morning’s meeting after stating so simply and clearly that they _liked_ each other -- then he wanted to just get it over with and move on one way or the other. And with his confidence growing in the direction telling him that the outcome he desired was more and more likely, he was starting to become impatient with this pointless waiting.

“We gonna talk or what? Dunno what you’re waitin’ for.”

He says what he wanted to say then because he knows he can now, and because the look of surprise on Paul’s face, one that morphs into a combination of amazement and cockiness, is more than worth the boldness.

“While I appreciate your eagerness, I think we should hold off a little longer. Do what we came here to do first. And honestly, I think Tara might try to fit the whole store in one basket if we don’t get started.”

He’s right, of course, and so Daryl shows his agreement by smoothing out the list with his thumb, zoning in on the written words rather than Paul fiddling with his gloves. He scans the list and nods to himself, becoming the first two step out of their shared space. He knows Paul watches him until he can’t anymore.

* * *

 

There’s not an abundance of items in the store, but there’s enough of a variety to make the stop worthwhile.

Daryl works the center of the store thoroughly by picking up boxes and bottles and packages that are noted on the list or otherwise strike him as being useful. He finds 5 packs of batteries, each a different cell size; a handful of minty flavored toothpastes that he knows Rick will raid for Michonne as soon as he finds out about them; 3 boxes of bandages, one of which features the faces of cartoon farm animals; and two containers of supposedly unscented baby wipes, as well as an armful of tins full of powdered formula. He finds the condoms as well, not even deigning to give them a once over before they get buried by his new and more interesting pick up of floral scented shampoo.

His basket becomes full quickly, items threatening to spill out even as he tries fitfully to give it some semblance of organization. He gives up after only a few tries and opts to set the basket down so he can then go grab another from the back, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Daryl jerks at the unexpected pressure on his back. He starts to swivel, aborting the action when he catches sight of Paul’s profile as he drops his basket next to Daryl’s. From the sound of it, there are two.

“You better quit doin’ shit like that,” Daryl complains, doing his best to relax his tense shoulders when he realizes that Paul’s hand isn’t going to drop from his back anytime soon. In fact, he feels fingers curl into the leather of his vest above the jacket still tied snugly around his waist. “Gonna get stabbed one of these days and alls I’ll say is you deserved it.”

“Sneaking up on a hunter is fun, not to mention a great test of skill. And I won’t get stabbed.”

Daryl doesn’t know what to say, although he refuses to admit becoming tongue-tied when Paul’s hand slides to his hip, chest pressing firm enough into Daryl’s back that it forces him to lean against the shelves. He glances down to see Paul’s other hand rise, fingertips now bare and brushing over a row of hair supplies. He snatches a little piece of cardboard covered in cloth ties, pocketing them and then stepping back, his grip on Daryl’s vest disappearing.

He could make a joke about Paul’s _lack_  of skill in understanding the basics of personal space, but there’s always the chance that Daryl’s delivery might fool Paul into believing he actually means it and then all of their progress would take a step in the wrong direction. Daryl shouldn’t even be worrying about things like this, really, but he can’t afford to screw shit up before they even get it straight. Get it _settled_. He’s turning into a mess of uncertainty.

“Should I grab a brush for you?”

Paul’s fingers toying with Daryl’s hair is as much of a tease as his words. But only one of those things Daryl can slap away, so he does just that, the length of his own fingers stinging against the younger man’s soft skin. After making contact, Daryl’s grip closes in round Paul’s slim hand before he can pull away reflexively, holding onto it much like he had beneath the table in the dining room. And Paul rolls with it now as easily as he had then, slotting fingers together as if it were as natural as the deep breath he exhales.

It then comes to Daryl’s attention that the baskets on either side of their feet are as full as his own; one containing rectangular packages of diapers in varying sizes and, in the other, an assortment of over the counter and prescription drugs courtesy of the Pharmacy Daryl had left the younger man in at least an hour ago.

“How many babies you think we got hangin’ ‘round, man?”

“Not many now, but like I said, they’re being born. A few women at Hilltop are expecting and I doubt that number will continue to grow. Repopulating the world seems like a favorable pastime for many.” Paul’s grin is easy and relaxed as it follows Daryl’s snort. “And I’m sure it’ll make Maggie happy.”

“Seems like you care a lot ‘bout that, makin’ her happy. Started chummin’ ‘round with her soon as you showed us Hilltop.”

“You didn’t think I was interested in her, did you?” It’s an obvious tease, the way he chuckles and tilts his head to maintain Daryl’s full attention, but the thumb caressing the veins of his wrist and the inquisitive lift of a brow offer is words as a real wonderment. “I mean, even if I were attracted to women, I’m not fool enough to think anyone could be capable of stealing her affections from Glenn. I wouldn’t have…”

Paul’s struggle to finish his sentence is visible and all Daryl can think is __way to go,_ dumbshit_ when the light-bulb above his head goes off and he realizes that Paul might be thinking about what had transpired between him, Alex, and Wes. His regret about getting in the middle of their relationship, even after getting things off his chest by scribbling it into a letter.

“Didn’t mean--”

“Oh, I know,” Paul assures, but his he still untangles his hand from Daryl’s and slides past him to study the items on the shelf a few feet away. Daryl can tell it’s simply for something to do while he ponders what to say next. “It’s not-- It’s a fair point, actually. I’ve thought about why I attached myself to your group so quickly when I took steps to stay distanced from my own people. It obviously started with you and Rick on the road. At first I just thought you were two guys I was stealing a truck from, I’d never see you again so it didn’t really matter, but I had to stop to change a tire and the two of you followed me on _foot_ that whole time.”

Paul chuckles at the memory, turning to face Daryl once more. He can find a bit of humor in the situation now that the soreness over losing that truck has dissipated completely.

“It couldn’t have been just a coincidence. Whether you believe in fate or not, we were supposed to meet. Our groups were supposed to help each other. Even after all of the trouble, you and Rick brought me back for medical attention. I hadn’t come across many people who would’ve done that, so I knew there was something special there, but… but seeing your group? Meeting Michonne and Glenn and Maggie? I think it was when she looked me in the eye and lied about how many people Alexandria had when I clearly saw for myself how small of a group you were, that was when I knew things would work out. Besides--” Swiping a brush from one of the metal rods holding the products on display, he strides back of to Daryl and drops the item atop his too-large smile, smiling innocent up at Daryl’s indignant expression. And once he’s invading Daryl’s space once more, close enough for him to spot specks of gray and tan in eyes that look more like storms in the dark than oceans, he whispers, “I already had my eye on someone else.”

“Yeah? Ain’t Rick, was it?”

Daryl decides that getting Paul to laugh should be his new goal every day, doesn’t know why it hasn’t been already. The soft sound that escapes Paul resembles Daryl’s usual snorts of humor, but with a breathy undertone, the sound nearly silent and shaking his chest.

“No,” he concedes, game to play along with Daryl’s goading. “Although I _did_  get an eyeful of him…” Paul gets that thoughtful expression crossing his features again when one though trails into the next. “He’s like your brother, right? Your whole group is a family unit, not just a community, and when I saw that I had this curiosity about what it would be like to experience something it, too. So, Maggie… she’s become like a sister to me.

“As soon as she made that deal with Gregory, I was proud of her. I didn’t know her, but I was proud. Not only because she didn’t want to pull her hair out after negotiating with him, but because she’d been so determined to make that bridge between us. And after, her strength and her humility, her desire to stick by Hilltop and lead it the way Gregory never could, to help our people the way she would help her own… I know Glenn’s a big part of that as well. They have a strong partnership, and his ethics are inspiring, especially when you realize how much shit you’ve all lived through. Sticking by her gives me a reason to do more, and sticking by you gives me…”

“I’ll tell you what it gives _me,”_ Daryl offers after a beat of Paul wrestling with his brain over what to say next, “A goddamned headache. You got a point to all this or d’you just like hearin’ yourself talk?”

It takes some of the weight off of their chests, eases them out of the not-so-unpleasant tension tingling just beneath the skin. They need to get back to work anyhow and they should probably check up on Tara, her silence this whole time an unusual occurrence. Even so, Paul doesn’t let the opportunity to respond pass him up.

“I don’t, actually. Not as much as you like it.”

He shoves Paul on reflex, grumbling beneath his breath a mix of things all coming back to _shut up._ He doesn’t need to be reminded about Paul reading him to sleep, he’s thought about it enough as it is, and the little shit humming contentedly at Daryl’s lack of a comeback tells him for certain that they need to hurry things up.

Daryl grabs the brush Paul had put into his basket and tosses it into the one with the pills. He should go put them in the RV for safe keeping and then come back to cross more items off the list. He picks up the handles of one of Paul’s baskets and reaches for the ones of his own, pausing when he notices Paul poking around the odds and ends he’d collected, taking a particular interest in one of the shampoo bottles.

“You picky ‘bout soap?” Daryl questions when all he has to do is just keep his mouth shut.

But their moment in that cramped shower at the back of Paul’s trailer is still fresh in his mind, he can recall vividly the tingles that had fogged up his brain when Paul’s hands dug deep into his mess of hair, and it’s distracting to his thought processing after having gone so long without thinking of anyone in the ways he’s thought and considered Paul.

“Not really. Why?” Attention now on Daryl, bottle still in hand, he hands with an almost shy quirk of his lips: “Is this for me?”

“Maybe. If you want. Used a lotta yours on me, so you get first choice.”

“Thanks. It smells nice.”

Paul rolls the bottle in his hand, thumbing the smooth label. Daryl leans forward to get a look at what scent it even is. The only word big enough to make out from his distance is _plumeria_.

“You like flowers?”

“Sure. I think most people do.”

Well, that’s true. Most people did seem to have an affinity for flowers, roses or daisies or some shit. While Daryl never went out of his way to appreciate plants the way he appreciated animals, he liked them well enough all the same.

He understood that they could hold meaning beyond dumb romantic gestures, that they could be used for so much more, like with the Cherokee Rose. Hearing the stories of their symbolism so long ago had created a certain soft spot for them that only increased after he’d presented one to Carol inside of Dale’s RV, before they knew Sophia’s fate… when they’d still had a death grip on the hope that the little girl would make it back alright. Telling her the story of the mothers and their lost children had helped create the unbreakable bond they shared to this day, and so he would always regard it as more than just Georgia’s state flower. It was special.

“Plumeria’s the genus,” Paul informs him, breaking the quiet and his thoughts with a calm tone. “It’s the common name, too, but there are so many others. Frangipani, Yasmin, Chafa, Kamboja. They’re used for making leis. And I read somewhere that in Polynesian culture, women wear them in their hair to symbolize relationship status.”

Daryl raises a brow for lack of anything else to do, not wanting to find Paul knowing random facts about flowers as endearing as he does, but it can’t be helped. Paul is an amalgam of cliche’s and contradictions; a good and peaceful man, a fighter, a wise-ass with an emphasis on the _wise._ A man who preferred to be called Jesus but looked at Daryl as if there could never be anything better than him hearing the word _Paul_  drop from his lips. He stole and he gave, he killed and he nurtured, and here he was now: standing in an aisle of a long abandoned drugstore, discussing the scent of shampoo and reciting facts about the flower that inspired it. Daryl never would have expected to appreciate something like this.

“Why you know that, anyway?”

“I dunno,” Paul drawls with a bit of a shrug. “Some things just stick with you, I guess.”

_Yeah, they do._

He could ask more questions, keep their little conversation going, but they’ll have more time for that later. For now, they need to finish combing through the store so they can get back on the road. The map indicated that they have another stop to make before they even reach their destination.

“Gonna go put these out.” He grabs Paul’s baskets in one hand, knowing the awkward grip of the large rectangles hitting against each other as he walks won’t cause any of the stacked supplies to spill out. Unlike his own basket, which he handles steadily all by itself in his right hand. “You wanna check on Tara? Haven’t heard her in a while.”

“Yeah, I’ll find her.”

Paul drops the bottle of shampoo back into place, taking up an easy stride beside Daryl until the reach the door they’d come in through. The parking lot is still mostly clear, only a few more roamers having entered since they’d been hold up in the store. It’s a clear enough path to the RV.

“Daryl,” Paul calls just as he ducks to get through the door. He looks back to see Paul obtain one of the empty baskets strewn in front of the car sticking through the storefront window. “I found you something, too.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what it is or when he’ll give it to him. Daryl’s confusion is written as clear as day across his features, but he doesn’t receive an answer. Paul’s slow-spreading smirk is the last thing he sees before the younger man spins around, basket swinging at his side, and sets off in search for Tara in the shadowy emptiness of the building.

Paul loves screwing with him far too much, Daryl thinks with a shake of his head. His legs carry him swiftly across the lot and to the RV without incident, allowing him to hop inside and set the baskets at the rear beside the bed. It’s stuffy inside, even with one of the windows cracked, reminding him that he could take time out for a smoke.

His hands shove into his pockets, fingers curling around the small box of matches and crinkled pack of cigarettes in the right, the pouch of slingshot ammo nestled inside the left. But there’s something else there, too; something hard and smooth, something he’s sure he hadn’t been there this morning.

Pulling it out, Daryl’s eyes land on chrome Zippo lighter, fresh out of the package. The lid is thumbed open and his fingers brushes down to flick the wheel, lighting a flame immediately. Paul must have found lighter fluid to fill the thing, probably slipped it into Daryl’s pocket when he’d popped up behind him to grab those hair ties. Like how he’d tripped in the woods just to sneak him the pack Tara had left with him, the ones he’d stole for her in the first place.

He didn’t even really _like_  Daryl smoking, but did stuff like this anyway. Just to be nice. Just to _give,_ to help. To make Daryl smile.

And he does.

* * *

 

Roads are a little harder to steer the farther away from Hilltop they get. Cars are scattered all around, blocking easy passage, but they get through it well enough. But Tara kept at it, going quiet in order to listen to Paul aiding their navigation.

She’d been a chatterbox at first, going on and on about her decision to start collecting sunglasses the same way Aaron obsessed over his license plate, unashamedly switching the mostly one-sided conversation into a tease about why she’d made herself scarce, creeping around shelves and staying out of sight to allow Paul and Daryl “alone” time. Daryl had stalked off immediately to grab the remaining baskets by the door, but not before hearing Paul laugh and attempt to explain that everything was fine and perfectly appropriate. Daryl’s irritation only grew, disliking the fact that they were making him sound like some dumb kid off on his first date when what all they __should__  be focused on were the damn lists and where to go next.

She’s quiet now, however. The whole RV is. And with the radio off for now, giving them a break from the crooning of the oldies, the jilted purring of the engine as it crawled along the pavement and Paul’s even-tempered delivery of directions interjected between some odd story about the very first time he met Gregory filled their ears, keeping them in an even mood. Daryl finds himself relaxing against the bench, legs propped up in the the empty beside the table, watching the world through the slats covering the window, more focused on the murmur of Paul’s voice rather than the metal graveyard in their way.

Daryl knows they won’t have much luck with a vehicle as clumsy as theirs, especially with a truck locked at the rear, and so he and Paul head out into the sun to start hot-wiring whatever cars allow for it. He’s a little quicker than Paul is, the younger man’s expertise seemingly focused more on bikes like the one he and Daryl took off on during their initial hit on Sanctuary. But he knows enough and learns far too quickly, something Daryl is both impressed and annoyed with, and it doesn’t take more than an hour to create a big enough space for Tara to push through.

There’s not much to loot from the cars, aside from spare tools or a folded blanket here and there, with Daryl coming across a miraculously full First Aide kit, but even Paul seems to decide that the heaps of metal aren’t wasting time on and so Daryl allows him to lead the way back into the waiting RV.

But Paul doesn’t return himself to the passenger seat, choosing to take up position beside Daryl on the bench instead. He keeps the map at the edge of table for easy access and reaches into the pocket of his coat to pull out a marker. The words on the side are faded and the clip on the cap is bent, meaning that it isn’t something he’d picked up at the drugstore but perhaps in one of the cars getting smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror. And the way Paul twists it around, as if observing something far more fascinating than what was currently in his hands, has Daryl wracking his brain for a possible cause.

The quick flash of a glance Paul sends his way is enough to jog his memory and Daryl finds a rough breath escaping his nostrils.

Very slowly, Daryl’s arm slides across the tabletop, tightly fisted hand loosening when it settles near the leather sleeve of Paul’s coat. He keeps his own gaze away, although he can feel the little ninja looking intently at him, and presses his head against the wall behind his back. Paul doesn’t need a second invitation, he probably figures he won’t be getting one anyways.

So he does what he wants to do, pulling the gloves from his hands without haste, setting them atop the map. His fingers stretch out, the tips of each one tapping against the back of Daryl’s hand in slow succession until it ends with a thumb sliding beneath Dary’s wrist. He uses this leverage to help twist Daryl’s arms, those same fingers sliding down in a ghosting caress to spread out against the softer, thinner skin covering thick and blue veins.

The framing of Daryl’s hand by Paul’s is too interesting to look away from; the shift in shade, the difference in size, rough against smooth, an immaculate canvas propped against a marred foundation. But he presses down and holds with conflicting pressures, one determined and where the other is delicate.

Daryl’s thumb rests easily in the space between Paul’s pinky and ring finger, blunt nails dragging against the back of too-smooth skin. There are bruises he only now notices, yellowing splotches surrounding scraped knuckles. The physical representation of a fight well-won. But while those bruises will fade from existence, their victory won’t. They’ll earn more; more injuries, more victories -- Or perhaps they won’t. Perhaps this is it, how would they ever know? They don’t need to. Not for this. Not to enjoy it, not to live it.

Paul bites the cap from the marker and sets it near his gloves, hunching over the table took scan Daryl’s wrist, darting eyes giving a glimpse into the cogs turning in his head. They both know, even before the first stroke of black ink, what the lines will blur into, what the image bleeding into every crack and crease of Daryl’s skin will reveal, but seeing it appear creeps up onto him regardless of expectations.

The wings climbing up his forearm look a hell of a lot like their withered counterparts covering his vest, but the lines are too careful, the structure too uniform. Unpracticed and imperfect, pulled from memories crafted only by quick glances. It may not be on his back, every point meeting a scar like Paul had first though up, but it’s something Daryl wishes could never be erased. Something he would keep from ever vanishing if only he could.

Paul’s mouth begins to spread into a smile, teeth digging into his plush bottom lip, and the marker swaps to a new design. Little flowers start circling the wings like a splatter of stars twinkling into existence, loopy curves forming clusters of silly halos. He’d keep those, too. And… maybe he can. The permanence of the image isn’t what’s important, but the permanence of its creator. Because that same image can be drawn on him in a hundred different ways every day for the rest of his life so long as Paul becomes the permanent fixture, so long as he _remains_. Because that meant more than any tattoo or scribbled drawing ever could.

With the marker capped and Paul’s brow furrowed in inquisitive concentration, Daryl closes his eyes. Not to sleep, not to think, but to just _breathe _.__ Paul keeps hold of Daryl’s hand until they reach their next stop.

* * *

 

Their haul from Reston isn’t as bountiful as it was from the drugstore in Springfield, but they don’t have as much time either.

Some of the streets are as packed as what they’d seen in Atlanta, corpses looking mostly like skeletal remains still somehow shambling around crashed vehicles and overturned signs directed citizens to the safe-zone Paul was leading them to. He’d taken the wheel only a handful of minutes back, leaving Tara to stare out the window like a wide-eyed child, still disturbed by the sighs around her. But Daryl remains concentrated, splitting his time glaring at the smudged words scribbled across the crinkled map and eyeing the shops scattered in each direction.

They’d already visited some kind of clothing store one street over, a place Daryl had never heard of and hated immediately upon arrival. He didn’t know what the fuck bananas had to do with shit you wore, but it was the only place on the street that looked safe enough to get in and out of on the fly. Tara went straight towards the women’s wear, not concerning herself with anything other than style and how useful and item would be in different seasons. Paul took a very similar approach, except Daryl noticed that his choices revolved more-so around utility.

Quilted coats to keep the warmth in, military styles for pockets and a more tailored fit, sweaters that weren’t thick enough to discard in the summer and pants that could be belted comfortably if they ended up too large on a slimmer waist. He didn’t touch the shoes and Daryl had no trouble seeing why; most of them looked too fragile, like they’d melt if you so much as stepped in a puddle, and none of them were sturdy enough to walk the terrain they lived around, too stiff and fancy to be practical.

Daryl stuck to t-shirts and socks, knowing just how much both of those things wore out, moving onto the belts once he’d made a mess of the the tables and racks in his vicinity. He didn’t pay much attention to the leathers his calloused fingers brushed over, grabbing them up in his arms so long as they felt tough on a tug and had enough holes to make it worth something. And on the way back to the front where he could hear Paul and Tara whispering amongst themselves, he’d passed a small selection of bandannas that had been labeled as _scarves._ They didn’t look like the rags he was used to, not even like the ones Paul wore and pinned to his wall, but it was close enough and so Daryl snatched the blue and white one to tuck away next to the shiny zippo in his pocket.

That’d been less than ten minutes ago but Daryl was already knocking his knuckles against the wall by his head to get Paul’s attention.

“Yo, check it out.”

Paul looks over the head rest just long enough to see Daryl pointing forward several feet and to the left, straight at a sign above a blue awning that read the word BABY in a fancy scrawl. They had a few kids at Hilltop already, a few at Kingdom, and babies not too far off from being born. Like Glenn and Maggie’s future little warrior. And Lil Asskicker needed things as well, what with how much she was growing. A building full of baby supplies seemed like something they needed to spend a little time tearing apart.

“Are you trying to upstage my mountain of diapers?” Paul jokes as they work their knives through the heads of any walkers that get in their path while they cross the deserted street.

Daryl spares him a glance, the corner of his mouth turning down instead up into the smirk he feels like returning.

“You tryin’ to make this a competition?”

“That would depend on the reward,” Paul tells him with confidence so maddening that Daryl could smack him upside the head. “Because if it’s good enough, then losing would be just another way to win.”

Daryl doesn’t need to think that one through to get it, especially not when Tara skips by the two of them with her hands covering her ears, an obnoxiously drawn out hum covering up whatever Daryl’s retort would have ended up being.  

Paul let’s himself be shoved forward, finding amusement in Daryl’s go-to gesture of manhandling whoever’s made him angry or embarrassed. Surprisingly, the two don’t always go hand-in-hand.

Displays are knocked over, clothes and bags strewn about, toys deserted atop the dusty wooden floors. Empty strollers and eyeless heads smashed against blood-stained blankets and coils of intestines create images that all three of them can’t stomach for long. Tara’s humming goes silent immediately and she can’t stop the shaky breath from escaping her slackened mouth. Paul doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to; the tension locked within his expression relays it all too well.

Daryl’s the first to step forward, pulling the flashlight from the pocket on the sweatshirt around his waist and clicking it on to get a better view deeper into the store. His stomach twists unpleasantly when his vision settles in the new light and he’s able to see a little pink shoe tied to a bare ankle, the grayed leg sticking out from behind a counter. His mind flashes back to the image of Sophia slipping through those barn doors, her own shoes catching against the dirt, the dried blood painted against her neck still looking bright against her colorless skin. The way Carol had cried…

No. He doesn’t need to relive that failure.

Daryl steels himself and starts to creep forward, sticking the end of the flashlight into his mouth to be able to pull his bow from off his shoulder. He’s got one of Paul’s empty bags hanging off the other, ready to be stuffed with all the things he’s learned babies could use and need.

“Hey, these could be good--” Tara grabs a duo of blankets wrapped in a bow and holds them up for Paul and Daryl to see, giving it a shake for emphasis. “They’ve got monkeys on ‘em. Everyone likes monkeys… right? Do I like monkeys?”

Her musing trails into silence, unanswered by her companions, but the lack of response doesn’t seem to bother her. She shrugs and tosses them into her own empty bag, breaking the stagnation by approaching a rack of newborn clothing.

Paul makes a beeline for the kid’s section and begins poking around in the books and puzzles, looking for something to help the older ones learn. So Daryl tries his hand at the more substantial items: car seats, diaper bags, slings. There are sippy cups lining a shelf beside animal themed plates and bibs, packs of washcloths and weird bath toys not too far away.

Daryl’s thorough scanning leads him to a bin of plush animals, all soft fur and bright colors drawing him closer. He digs his hand in pulls out a stuffed tiger. It almost makes him laugh, despite where’s he’s standing, but he drops the toy back into place with one last lingering glance.

They work through the store with quick efficiency together, figuring out which things are more useful than others and why. But they still focus on their self-designated categories and do their best to fill the bags until they look as if they might burst.

It’s when Daryl’s looking over a rolled towel with an elephant head that Paul takes up a position beside him.

“New bath time toy?”

“I could strangle you with this, y'know.”

Paul laughs at Daryl’s growled threat, the sincerity of it making Daryl turn his head just enough to catch the gleam of his teeth and the crinkles around his eyes.

“I don’t see myself being interested, but I guess we won’t know until you try.”

Daryl’s face feels like a flame’s just been lit inside his head this time and he’s honestly thankful the damn store is shrouded in enough darkness to mask any unwanted redness coloring his skin.

“You ever shut up with shit like that?” he says a little too heatedly, but Paul doesn’t mind.

“I’m sorry,” he tries. The wavering of his voice tells Daryl that he really isn’t. “Anyway, I didn’t come over here just to flirt.”

It’s only then that Daryl looks down to the bulk in Paul’s arms.

The little ninja presents him with something that the label refers to as a Moses Basket, mentioning that he’d found it in the back room.

“It looks like the only one they had,” he says as he steps away from Daryl to get a better look. “Must have been a display item, but I think it could work well enough after it’s cleaned.”

“Yeah.” Daryl shrugs and bends to drop it by his bag. He scans the store one more time, though he knows by now what the store does and doesn’t have. “Don’t see any cribs ‘round here. Guess that thing’s good enough.”

“There were some boxes stored back there, too. Maybe extra inventory or things that were defective, but it could be worth checking out. Otherwise, I’d say we’re done here.”

“What, too heavy for you or somethin’?”

Paul snorts at Daryl’s dig, his eye roll completely unsubtle.

“I carried you out of Sanctuary, in case you don’t remember--”

“Said you dropped me on my damn head, too.”

“Well--” He tries to argue, but his quick-wit can’t seem to come up with a good enough retort. Paul can’t deny the facts and so he doesn’t attempt to. “Fine,” he concedes. “Yes, Daryl. I need your help lifting boxes I don’t want falling onto _my_ head. Does my validation of your strength make you happy?”

His grunt is the only response he delivers to Paul, which is indicative of a clear __no__  that the younger man still somehow takes as an affirmative. But he doesn’t comment any further on it. He spins around and leads the way towards the door left ajar in the back, Tara’s suspicious gaze following them semi-discreetly the whole way.

The cramped space is blocked by boxes on the floor, first of all, all stacked up on either side of the narrow width between half-stocked storage units. Daryl begins dragging each one away, setting them flat on the floor for Paul to cut open with one of his daggers. He pauses once or twice to look at the contents -- folded strollers, stacks of CD’s, flattened backpacks for children, a gray and white toy cow with pink nose and ears -- before setting himself back on task. But when the path is cleared, he stops once again, this time frozen in place.

There’s a baby carrier pushed against the shelf, nothing but blood and torn cloth beneath the buckle, a tuft of hair matted against a rumpled blanket. And a woman laid out beside it, crooked fingers stilled in a clawing grip over something hard and stained red.

“Daryl?”

It’s too late. _Don’t, he wants to say. Get out. Don’t look. You don’t need to see this._  But Paul is beside him in an instant, wouldn’t listen to Daryl even if the words could punch through his teeth.

Deathly silence follows, but Daryl wouldn’t expect anything less. What kind of reaction could a person have to this, even now? And he’s already seen Paul’s empathy in full force; back at that gas station when he’d taken the photograph from that dead lady’s hand, by the pillars when he’d let Daryl hug him tight, so many other instances of Paul feeling too much even while trying to feel as little as possible. His desire to be objective in the world could never truly work, not with how much he cared. And Daryl can’t shield him from horrors he’s already seen and fought through, can’t make things better with forced ignorance, but that doesn’t stop him from wishing he could.

He stares at the gruesome scene for as long as Paul does, able to see the blankness of the younger man as he processes what’s before him. It takes only moments for him to blink and then twist his head away, but it feels like hours for Daryl and hours _more_  before Paul faces him with a bitter set of his mouth.

“Will you get that box?”

He nods his head to one in the middle, at the very top.

“I’ll bring it out.”

“You don’t need to,” Paul tells him quickly.

“We don’t gotta go through all this shit in here.”

“It’s fine.”

“Paul,” Daryl states with a hint of softness underlying his clipped tone.

But Paul’s frustration is even more evident now, his chest puffing with a sharp inhalation.

_“I’m_  fine,” he stresses. It reminds Daryl of after Eduardo had been taken down, the way he’d shut down any sort of coddling in order to push on.

When Daryl’s only response is to continue to stare, Paul turns to slip by him, arms stretching up as far as they’re able. He doesn’t even get close to the box he’d wanted before Daryl’s hand is on his bicep, forcing him to back up.

It’s not clear even to himself why Paul’s reaction bothers him, while his sudden switch in temperament is unwelcome. Daryl’s never babied anyone, he’s not about to start now, and Paul is a tough son of a bitch, but…

_But._

He can’t shake it, that _feeling_  that he needs to comfort someone in pain, even if he’s shit at it. Carol with the rose, Merle in the back of the prison, Beth at the funeral home, Rick by the car after that dumb shit with the claimers, Tara with Denise’s soda… Whatever he can do, he _will._ He always has. It’s no different with Paul and it never will be.

“Stayin’ here, makin’ yourself look at shit like this? You ain’t got nothin’ to prove, Paul.”

“Then why are _you?”_

It’s a weak rebuttal, edging on defeat. Daryl isn’t trying to beat him. He just wants him to see this as clearly as he sees everything else.

“’Cause you asked me to help,” he tells Paul as calmly as he’s able. Looking him in the eyes, he says: “So lemme.”

He almost wavers under Paul’s childlike scrutiny, but only almost. Because it’s wondrous in its own right, unflinchingly honest and bare, and Daryl finds himself wanting to know yet again what exactly Paul’s thoughts are composed of. What he wants to say and won’t, that thing that Alex already understands but Daryl is still chasing, what the hell draws him to Daryl in the first place.

“You have” Paul insists. His hand grabs Daryl’s bicep in the same way Daryl had done to him mere seconds ago, but with a lesser grip. “You _are _.__ And I’m good right here. Trust me.”

What would it have been like if things had never made it this far? What if they’d never stopped and met an asshole calling himself Jesus who tricked them with firecrackers and stole their shit? What if they had, but Daryl stuck to his penchant for mistrust and never looked at Paul as anything more than just another survivor pushed out of arm’s reach?

But he’d gone so quickly from an annoying, potentially helpful stranger to one of the most important people in Daryl’s life, one of the __best__ , and that transition would always seem unavoidable. Rick, Carol, Glenn, Maggie, Tara, Aaron, Sasha, Rosita… His _family_. Every single moment that shifted and merged to slot them into a familiarity, a camaraderie, that Daryl had only ever glimpsed with Merle. It was even more different with Paul. He didn’t know __why__ , only that it was and that he was thankful for it and for _him._

He does trust Paul; in every iteration of the word, in every aspect of the meaning, with everything tucked away haphazardly inside of his being. It’s scary, but he’s not afraid. Because he doesn’t need to be.

Daryl’s never been good with words, not even with how much practice he’s gotten lately -- everyone wanting to talk to him about some damn thing, most usually involving Paul. But he could always be trusted to __act__ , to do something whether it was good or bad, needed or needless.

Daryl pushes the beanie farther up Paul’s forward and tugs at it from the back of his head, adjusting the knitted hat to fit properly even if all he wants is to pull the stupid thing off. He spreads his fingertips beneath the fold, moving strands of hair to rest at the sides of his face rather than against it. He’d tuck the wisps behind Paul’s ears if they were visible, like he’s seen him do more than a dozen times, but this is all he has for now.

His thumb sweeps across the coarse, thick hair on Paul’s jaw, tucking beneath the chin to tilt up barely in an inch. In contrast, Paul’s gaze drops down, darkened eyes somewhat crossing when they stop at Daryl’s chin or maybe his mouth, his thin lip as its caught crookedly between his teeth. He’s never had to be so gentle. Could have wanted to, if he had a reason. Now he does.

Daryl stops the way he had begun, without preamble or contemplation, and moves on past the body on the floor to grab the box from up high. It’s certainly heavy enough for someone as surprisingly as strong as Paul to need help with. And it has Daryl nearly buckling, the strain on his back too sudden, not to mention how dangerously the cardboard sides wobble in his grip.

Paul eases the weight with his assistance when his arms weave between Daryl’s, leather-clad hands slotting in to offer support where there is none. They set it down together, atop one of the boxes they’d deemed worthless pushed against the opposite wall. They don’t even need a knife to open it up, are able to just tear straight through the flaps without any issue.

Both of their moods lift considerably when they’re treated to the surprising sight of disassembled crib stacks.

“Shit.”

Paul’s hum reaffirms his reaction.

“C’mon.” Daryl kicks at the box and bends to grab the bag he’d dropped, unzipping it to peer inside. “We get everything loaded, have Tara help us drag these out last--”

He’s trying to figure out if there’s enough space for just a few more items, if he can somehow make room by smashing everything farther down, when a sudden snarl rips through the air. Daryl drops the bag and reaches for the knife at his hip the same time Paul does, the two of them glancing over towards the suddenly awakened corpse on the floor. Her clawed hand remains stuck around the bone, her torso twisting unnaturally, glassy stare settling on the only two living creatures in the room. Daryl’s instinct is to step forward and stab her in the brain immediately, but the blood caked to her face makes him rethink.

Sheathing his knife is a nod to Paul in his own way, telling the younger man to take care of it without words to sour the intent. He watches Paul take two steps forward and swipe down with effortless lethality, stopping the shell of a woman from doing any more harm.

They don’t need to discuss it any more.

“You see any sheets?”

Paul fixes his coat after strapping his daggers back in place, giving Daryl a nod that holds no tension, a small smile beginning to brighten the features that had grown solemn.

“The one on the right had a few. There were some out front, too.”

Digging through the box Paul had directed him to, Daryl’s fingers come to wrap around another plush toy, one so similar to the others he’d inspected but different in an inexplicable way. It’s just the cow Daryl had taken note of at the start of clearing the room, hidden within various other non-essentials kept from the storefront, but…

Well, maybe it’s the fact that the fluffy little thing is a cow, a stupid homage to Maggie and Hershel and Beth, the farm that saved them until it’s inevitable loss. The place that Maggie had grown up, the place she’d first met Glenn, and -- selfishly -- the place that had made Daryl apart of people’s lives rather than just drifting at the edge of them.

All he knows is, their little baby better like cows. And he also knows that Paul still owes Alexandria the one he’d promised when Daryl foolishly brought up killing the Saviors in exchange for a deal of their own.

“Judith or Baby Rhee?”

“Got somethin’ for Lil Asskicker already.” He turns to look at Paul, who’s pressed so close against his side that there must not be any space between Daryl’s elbow and the little ninja’s leather sleeve. “That elephant thing.”

“The one you threatened to strangle me with?” Daryl’s glare stops Paul from teasing any further, but it doesn’t erase the tenderness blanketing the creases of his face. With his left hand pressing against the small of Daryl’s back, his right one reaches out to grab one of the fleecy horns atop the cow’s head. “I think he’ll like this, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Babies don’t know shit from shit,” Daryl murmurs, but he makes room for it in his overstuffed bag anyhow. And then-- “He, huh?”

“Well, that’s what Maggie thinks,” Paul corrects. “They don’t know yet. And babies form attachments to things pretty early on, Daryl. For the very minuscule chance that he or she _doesn’t_  like it, you at least know Maggie will. She might even cry.”

“You best give it to her, then.”

Paul chuckles and lifts up off the floor slightly, rising to the toes of his boot, brushing the hand at Daryl’s back all the way up until he can cradle the side of Daryl’s head. He presses his lips to Daryl’s temple, just a peck, but allows his nose to stay scrunched up in his dark hair for a few ticks longer.

“Not a chance,” he whispers.

Daryl has to bite back a smile.

_“Umm, guys? Hello?”_

It’s probably best that Tara interrupts them with her tentative calling, her muffled voice sounding immediately closer when she yells out again.

“Okay, so either you found some really good shit in there or you’re doing something that would require me pouring bleach into my eye sockets and, whadda you know, I’m all out of bleach. So please don’t be that last thing.”

It’s Paul that rolls his eyes in exasperation this time, no doubt unfamiliar with how it feels to be on the receiving end up such pesky teasing. Serves him right, honestly.

He steps away from Daryl to shove the door open all the way, giving her an opening to pop her head inside.

“We found cribs,” he tells her, motioning towards the box that thankfully blocks the woman and the bloody carrier from her view. She nods, seemingly impressed with their newest discovery.

“Awesome, but look what _I_ found!”

She holds out a small orange yo-yo in her hand, grinning as if it were the cure to all humanity rather than a cheap, outdated toy for children and old people. But her sense of hope and _happiness_  at all twists and turns is too uplifting to ignore.

But a fucking yo-yo.

“C’mon,” Daryl interrupts. The amusement in his bark is uninhibited. “Gonna load up. Got other places to be.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I've just been disappointed in this chapter and the next one I've started on, which is a shame since I've been looking forward to them. It just feels like I can't get into the right space or something. But I'm still going and I'm still trying, and I hope you can enjoy the chapter. (Daryl petting Shiva is a gift the show gave us however brief it was.)
> 
> I promised more Desus last time and so more Desus there is! I will say, though, that I've had to rearrange some stuff with the final chapters because as I write things just keep growing?? This is another extra long chapter! It was originally going to be even longer, but I decided in the end that the way it needs to be laid out for means that there will be 14 chapters rather than 13, so an extra chapter overall! But don't worry, the final count will definitely be 14. So we're farther away from the ending, but also closer because now I'm certain about what's happening where. 
> 
> I recommend the song for this chapter very highly because it's beautiful and magnificent and so many of you really like Map On A Wall (which has become one of my all time faves now). [The song they listen to in the RV is Come Go With Me by The Del-Vikings. I do love me some oldies.]
> 
> I have an issue where I tend to like spoiling my own story in author notes, sort of. Because I want you guys to know everything before I write it. But I'll just say that, while I'm struggling with chapter 12, I think you'll really like the desus in it. Like get ready for some overload, basically. :D For now, I hope this chapter is good enough. 
> 
> As always, thank you so, so much for the comments. They mean so much to me. You're all so motivating and it makes me happy that you like the fic. Also, sorry for the mistakes that I'm sure are there. I didn't look over the chapter until just now and even then, it was more of a skim.


	12. Know Me Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And when I think upon my past,  
> I see I loved you many years before you came  
> In my hopes and my dreams,  
> with the wax and the moon wanes  
> And you saw what I could be,  
> please teach me how to be what I was made to be  
>  **See, without you, I was nothing  
> **  
>  But with you, I can be anything  
> Oh, you know me well, you know me well, know me well  
> Oh, you know me well, know me well, know me well  
> What can I fear when I know that I walk by your side?  
> You're the fortress within which I got nothing to hide  
> None can take me, I'm the tower the world couldn't fell  
> 'Cause I'm stronger when I know that you know me well"
> 
> (know me well | roo panes)

The world darkens around them, early evening slowly dwindling into night. They finally reach their destination after spending too many hours in Springfield and Reston, but they know it wasn’t for nothing. The back of the RV is piled up with goods, the truck-bed stacking up just as nicely. Both still have room to spare for whatever they find at the stranded safe-zone in Leesburg.

They’d started back on the road close to forty minutes prior, with approximately ten of those spent digging through Alex’s basket to regain some of their spent energy. More fruit, more bread, more water; all of which they were thankful for. These were staples at Hilltop and a hell of a lot better than stale crackers or gamey meat -- neither of which Daryl minded, but could still appreciate a break from. The best part, however, was the jar of preserves tucked away at the bottom.

If Paul had still been wondering whether or not Daryl liked the blackberry jam he’d been presented with earlier that morning, Daryl scooping out the bumpy goop with his fingers alone and then licking them clean might have given him an honest answer.

But they’re back at it now with the RV chugging across leaf-patterned roads, the curve of the exit bringing them past parks and eateries. There’s a church and a school on one side, various medical facilities and an auto shop that piques Daryl’s interest. Supermarkets, banks, a gas station nestled on the corner of the street that Paul shifts them onto.

Daryl leaves his spot at the bench with the crumpled map in hand, propping himself up behind the driver’s seat, forearm resting just behind Paul’s head. He shakes the paper out, leaning farther to the right to accept Tara’s help in holding it open. There’s not much he can see within the colored lines and dots, nothing so tailor made as to show him the streets of the area they’re on, but he at least has a general idea of direction.

“Where’re we going again?” Tara wonders aloud, puzzling over the muddled shapes. She gives up after a few brief seconds, choosing instead to squint at the signs and buildings dotting their trail onward.

“There was a zone set up maybe… two, three miles out from that station we just passed.”

“You sure? Or you gonna have us ridin’ ‘round all night, tryin’ to figure out your left from right?”

Daryl looks to the rear-view mirror reflexively, rather than the side of Paul’s face that’s so close to his own, able to catch his eyes in all its feigned annoyance.

“I’m sure,” Paul retorts. “The walls ended not too far from an elementary school -- or started, however you wanna look at it. Either way, we’re not far.”

The pass a crematory on a curve, more banks and a duo of schools. When Tara points them out, Paul just shakes his head. They aren’t there yet.

Daryl can’t help thinking that the whole area would be a good one to commandeer, with all the clinics and auto shops and restaurants. They could collect first aid, cooking appliances, learning tools, equipment from the sporting good’s store he glimpses nestled in near a book store. It’d be a hell of a lot of work, trying to claim even just this small portion of the city, but he could see that effort being worth it in the end. However, the safe-zone is their top priority, whatever walls or barricades already in place being something they could easily expand upon.

If not, then they’d spend the rest of their allotted time buzzing around stores for more potential scavenging. Daryl wasn’t going to let them drive back to Hilltop with some baby clothes and batteries. They needed more -- Rick and Michonne, Carol and Ezekiel, they __all__  needed more. And if this was the fresh start after the hell they’d conquered, the next step up in their new world, then he’d make damn sure it was worth a little more.

The cluster of neighborhoods they're suddenly entering resembles more of a ghost town than the barren main drag. Windows broken, bins of trash overturned, sacks of groceries smashed against driveways for so long now that they look like fixtures of nature. Some front yards have slides or basketball hoops, bikes hidden in overgrown patches of grass. Nothing's been touched since the beginning.

The farther they go, the narrower the streets get, and it’s Paul’s turn to maneuver their wide load through a row of cars blocking an easy pace. Daryl had been ignoring the aimless wanderings of the handful of walkers he’d spotted once they’d entered the populace, but the sightings of them only continue to grow and he knows they’re heading into more dangerous territory.

Paul slows down at a roundabout, barely curving their vehicles around the circle to keep straight ahead. The creasing of his forehead means they’re either closing in on the safe-zone or are somehow lost. Figuring the younger man remembers enough to know what he’s talking about, Daryl keeps watch of the road, ducking his head down farther to get a better view.

It’s only a minute or so before they reach a second roundabout, with Paul swerving them to the right this time. The houses are larger in this area, probably well-maintained before the infection hit. It’s not often that Daryl thinks of Jenner and the CDC, but every once in a while the words of the doctor will creep up on him, make him wonder what in the hell started everything and why the initial spread killed some but not others. He couldn’t tell them if it was a virus or some kind of bacteria, a fungal parasite taking over their brains as if they were nothing more than ants carrying on for a hive mind, or if it was something as inexorable as the wrath of God, the very thing Jacqui had uttered that fateless day.

And with Eugene’s cure being a lie they’d all gotten over quicker than  they’d ever believed, Daryl’s resolved himself to the fact that they never really __will__ know how or why the world started trying to kill itself off… Not that he’d ever cared much in the first place. The only thing that matters is how they go on.

_We do what we need to do and then we get to live._

“See that walkway?”

Daryl looks to the left when Paul’s voice breaks through his thoughts.

“There’s a school back there,” he continues. “Which means… It was left from that last roundabout. I was coming from that way--” He points forward, the direction they were headed in before he’d tapped the breaks, “But I remember now. We turn around and go forward, then left from _there_.”

Making a u-turn is a little more difficult than it should be, but they pull through after a few attempts of Paul jerking the wheel with steeled patience. And true to his word, once they make another pass through the roundabout and turn onto Wildman, the beginnings of a quarantine begin to take shape.

A gate stands tall some feet down the road, the side streets cut off by metal walls stretched from one house to another. Aside from the gate and a crooked sign reading _Oakcrest_  pinned to the canvas covering the bars, there’s nothing else of note. Behind the barrier, however, they’ve yet to discover.

The engine cuts off with a twist of a key, dropping them into a stifling silence. Daryl looks down to Paul when the little ninja looks up, his expression of anticipation mirroring what Daryl feels unfurling in his chest. They swivel their heads to Tara at the same time, finding her already peering at them with equal uncertainty.

There’s no clear leader here, that’s the issue Daryl picks up on immediately. No Rick or Maggie or Ezekiel to tell them what to do. Even if any one of them possesses a mind tactile enough to develop a plan, they're so used to being followers that they're not sure how to go about their own devices now. 

“Should we… scope it out?”

Tara’s tentative inquiry pushes Daryl towards the door. Fresh air hits him forcefully, a welcome chill washing over his skin, and even in the slow spreading darkness he squints his eyes to narrow in on the gate, trying to see any shadows that might appear behind the cloth beneath the setting sun.

They inch forward one after the other, closing in on the barrier separating them from the rest of the street ahead, weapons drawn and senses tuned to the fullest. When they’re close enough to brush the canvas draped across the bars with barely an outstretched hand, they stop to listen.

Daryl doesn’t hear anything beyond a few standard grumblings, hissed growls produced intermittently from otherwise useless vocal chords.

Stepping in front of Daryl, Paul looks him in the eye and says: “I could use a boost.”

So he does what he did when they were caught between the trees, hiding from Saviors as they searched for outposts. He bends, cups his hand, and steadies himself while Paul’s fingers grip onto his shoulder and the tread of his boot digs into Daryl’s palms. The little ninja bends his knees and then springs upward, using the  momentum Daryl gives him in order to jump high enough to grab the flat top of the gate.

Paul wiggles his way up from there with little effort, draping his leg across the bar to keep him in place but leaving the other dangling on the side he’d come from, for the ease of dropping back down if need be. But he settles for the moment, chest pressed flat against metal, head turned towards the interior of the barricade to observe what Daryl and Tara can’t see.

It takes him only three minutes of quiet scanning before he begins calling down to them.

“Well, there’s no herd, but we’re definitely surrounded.”

“How many?”

“Could be a hundred. Maybe less.”

“Could be?”

Paul goes silent again at Daryl’s question, pushing off the bar easily enough to get a more accurate view. His head moves ever so slightly, jerking in swift motions to match his silent count. A handful of seconds later, he’s leaning back down to address Daryl and Tara once more.

“At least eighty-two, and that’s just from what I can __see__. There’s a road straight ahead, blocked by some vans, and there could be anything beyond it. There’s another gate, like this one--” his boot clinks against the frame holding him high in the air, “--leading to a side street, but the opposite end is completely open. No barricade, just some dead ones and-- and some kind of structure. Maybe a watchtower.

“This is an intersection,” he continues on, so precariously over the other side that Daryl has to resist the urge to jump up and grab his foot to stop the tumble that doesn’t happen. “They had booths set up. One looks like a medical station, the other one could have been a gun cache. A checkpoint system, which could mean the zone was militarized or at least run by someone who knew what they were doing.”

 _ _Like Reg and Deanna,__  Daryl thinks. And it still didn’t end well for them.

“Bodes well for us, right?” Tara pipes up. “Could be a lot of guns hanging around, or some serious first-aid. A stockpile of food. Blankets. Disaster relief.”

“I think that’s a plausible conclusion, but something had to happen here. People could have gotten sick too quickly, turned and attacked while others fled, or maybe this used to be a horde and we’re looking at what’s left.”

“Could’ve been hit by the Saviors,” Daryl offers, “or a group like ‘em. Took shit and left.”

“True.” Paul sighs, rising up into a more proper sitting positing. “I don’t see any supplies, aside from some assault rifles dropped here and there, but the houses… People lived in them, before and after. All of these can’t be already cleared out. And if a group like Negan’s did beat us here, I doubt they would have wasted time scouring the whole neighborhood. We’ve got the odds.”

“I mean, less than a hundred walkers--”

“Only from the left, Tara,” Paul reminds her.

She simply shrugs.

“Well, sure, but we were never gonna take the whole place at once, right? Two sides are blocked off. We stick to the one way, get rid of the dummies in our path, and we’ve got it. At least for a while.”

“We could block ‘em in,” Daryl adds. It sounds an awful lot like an agreement to Tara’s plan. “Go ‘round, take another road, drop some cars in the way. Make it so they can’t get to us ‘fore we’re ready.”

Paul hums thoughtfully, head tilting while he looks out into the distance.

“We take it a quarter at a time? Manageable, strategic, and safe.”

Twisting atop his perch like some kind of inexplicable, watchful bird, Paul’s leg joins the other to dangle over the edge, high above Daryl and Tara’s heads. The smug satisfaction dawning on his features is something that Daryl can relate to, for once.

“I guess we’ve got a plan.”

“Damn right we do.” Tara beams at Daryl and then up at Paul, straightening her spine with pride, arms crossing over her chest. “So… now what?”

“Don’t make sense startin’ it up now.” Daryl twists at the hip to face the RV, the cogs of his brain deciding on their next action. “We can get some prep done, but then we oughta call it.”

“Start fresh, in the morning--”

Daryl whips around when Paul grunts, witnessing him dropping back down to solid ground. He reaches out before the little ninja’s feet plant firmly on the ground, easing some of the weight and strain off his ankles. The steadying grip on Daryl’s biceps turns into a lingering squeeze, with Daryl’s own fingers bypassing the fold of the leather trench coat in favor of curling into the vest beneath. His thumb presses up far enough to meet a prominent jut of Paul’s hip, interest piquing momentarily before he yanks his hands away, refusing to outwardly acknowledge the tenderness shaping his demeanor.

The exchange doesn’t even last as long as two breaths passing between them, but it’s a moment of intimacy nonetheless; smaller, perhaps, than many others, yet striking enough to stick to the forefront of Daryl’s mind while they pile back into the RV.

They begin tracing around to where they came from, making one turn and then another only several feet after, setting themselves on an alternate path to the intersection they’d just left. And once they reach the direction they’re set on, it becomes clear that whatever had been used to section away their current street from the long, unbroken stretch of Oakcrest was no longer standing.

Pieces of a barrier were still in place, but the walls had fallen, the gap allowing many of the walkers Paul had taken count of to roam freely. And there was no telling how it would look the farther they went. But still, it was manageable. Seeing this for himself only made Daryl believe harder that the three of them could do their task together.

The discussion Daryl, Tara, and Paul participate in before creeping through the chilling fall of night consists mostly of the steps they need to take: stick to each others’ backs, find some cars that aren't dead and get them running, then use them as make-shift roadblocks to cut off any walkers from getting on or off of the winding road that led to and from the Oakcrest sign. Not only would they end up being safe enough for the night, but there was a good chance that, by morning, the walkers gathered inside the zone would make for easy and efficient pickings.

Of course, the more compact vehicles of the area could only do so much, especially with the pikes they were used to maintaining at the entrance of Alexandria being currently out of the question. They’d make it work, though. Daryl was confident of that much. And if things _did_  lead them too far up shit creek? The RV was a good enough battering ram to get them the hell out of Leesburg.

* * *

 

It’s cold by the time they settle, enough so that Daryl finally pulls the plaid jacket from his waist to slip on beneath his battered vest. The poor thing hasn’t been getting as many washes as he has lately, which in itself makes Daryl want to scoff.

But he doesn’t want to ruin one of his only consistent possessions due to lack of reparation, so he settles himself with the fact that he’ll have to wash it when he gets back. Or maybe he can wait until he stops at Kingdom, take Carol up on her offer from when she’d first started wearing those ridiculous flower sweaters. She’d take pity on him, if he’d only asked, and get it cleaned up real nice.

Daryl’s sigh comes out in a puff of cold air. His thumb flicks the lid of his lighter open, but he doesn’t light a flame. There’s no cigarette between his dry lips, although he has plenty of them, he's just… not in the mood, which he knows is fucking _weird._ He doesn’t need to scratch that particular itch right now because there really isn’t one, not yet. His thoughts are too scattered, hopping from one place to another but always settling back on Paul.

The lid of the lighter shuts with a clink, only to be forced open again. Daryl repeats this action mindlessly, his restless body propped against the side of the RV.

Tara’s asleep inside, taking the bed without much of a struggle once she realized that Daryl didn’t want it. And Paul didn’t, either, as it turned out. He’d elected himself as guard for the night and perched himself up on the roof, promising Daryl he’d wake him for a shift if he’d at least take a nap. His smile in response to Daryl’s glare was too sweet to be completely sincere, but that knowledge didn’t dampen the affection burrowing away inside his rib cage.

 _Tink. Tunk. Tink. Tunk. Tink._  Over and over again, Daryl opens and closes his zippo, the sound barely registering in the quiet of the little suburb they’re camped out in the midst of. The rustling of Paul shifting atop the RV’s roof is somehow a much more interesting sound and, with a final _tunk_  of his lighter’s lid, Daryl decides he might as well join him for the night. Or at least until he’s tired enough to plop his ass back into the passenger seat to get a couple hours in ahead of sunrise.

The faint clatter of his boots climbing the rungs of the ladder is the only sound for a minute or so, until his knees create small thuds against the roof when he hauls himself forward. Paul has already turned to observe Daryl’s movements, a brief flash of surprise shifting to patient curiosity as Daryl settles beside him, one leg stretching out across the expanse beneath them while the other gets tucked in close. Paul is in a similar position; not as sprawled, more carefully reigned in. But when Daryl scoots beside him, leaving only inches between their thighs, Paul's posture relaxes enough for Daryl to recognize.

“You can’t sleep?”

Daryl shrugs at the question. His thumb rises up to his face, pressing against his mouth rather than slotting between his teeth.

“Nah. Been gettin’ enough lately, don’t feel like it now.”

“You should at least try to rest, like you said,” Paul tries to persuade. “We’ll have a lot to do come morning. We don’t need you passing out on us.”

Daryl knocks elbows with him, taking the tease in mellow stride. He can only make out the shapes of the tree branches in the dark, but the moon above them is at least bright enough to highlight Paul’s profile. The slope of his nose, the cut of his beard, the strands of hair that fall from behind his ear when he moves his head, unruly without the beanie to hold the pieces in place. He’s still got his coat on, the current weather giving him an actually plausible reason to be wearing it. A bandanna hangs loosely around his neck, half tucked into the vest zipped against his chest.

It reminds Daryl that he’s got one in his pocket, waiting to be handed over.

So… he does.

The younger man watches Daryl fidget, a smile tugging at his mouth when it becomes clear what’s being presented to him.

Paul reaching up to untie the plain bandanna around his neck and replacing it with Daryl’s new one sends a spark of hot embarrassment slithering up his neck and down his spine. He didn't have to go and wear it  _now_ , but...

“S’for the one you gave me, so we’re even.”

It’s a silly explanation, an unneeded one, but a niggling desire to _explain_  himself takes a sudden hold and won’t let go. If he let’s himself think about it, he knows the reason why. Knows what they’ve been hopping around like skittish fools. And Daryl could certainly bring it up, but this is one thing he doesn’t want to push and prod at, bitch and moan until Paul caves and starts the conversation he’s been dreading and eagerly anticipating simultaneously.

“Got all those hangin’ on your wall, too. You collectin’ ‘em?”

Shit, he could just punch himself, maybe even ask Tara to do it, anything to knock him out of this idiotic trance. Is he really trying to make small talk? And with Paul, of all people -- a man Daryl used to complain about never shutting up. He doesn’t much appreciate this role reversal, but if this is what it takes to get some answers…

“In a sense. They’re for practicality more than for show, but it helps that I… I dunno, like looking at them?” The laugh he gives is short and breathy, a hint of awkwardness creeping into his calm. Then, turning enough to rest his chin against his own shoulder, he meets Daryl’s apprehension with piercing appraisal.

“Thank you.”

Paul whispers his gratitude in such a way that, even if they are the only two around, he knows those words are just for him. The only response he can think to give is a jerky nod.

If this isn’t awkward as hell then Daryl doesn’t know what is and he’s not too keen to find out, either. It’s a mess he’s gotten himself into, a _good_ mess, and he doesn’t even want to get himself out. Not of this, not away from Paul when all Daryl has to do is grow some balls and say _talk to me._

The holes being burned into the side of Daryl’s face don’t even lessen when Paul starts to to scoot back, maneuvering himself away from Daryl. Confusion sets in immediately, but when he looks to Paul to get some sort of idea, the little ninja only pushes him back around, gripping at his vest to pull him backwards.

“What the hell--”

Daryl grunts and doesn’t budge, even makes an attempt to shrug Paul’s grip away instinctively, but the hold persists. Not forceful, just unyielding.

“I don’t think you’ll be going back inside anytime soon, so you can at least get some rest up here.”

Daryl’s resistance to Paul’s coaxing tugs remains, albeit waveringly. But just as he had in the shower, the moment Paul eases up is the moment Daryl decides for himself to trust where Paul is leading him. In this case, it’s simply _down_.

With great delicacy, Paul guides Daryl’s head to rest against his lap, the firm softness of a thigh pillowing his neck immediately contrasting with the hardness of the roof beneath his back. But Daryl doesn’t know how to react to something like this. He’d been good lately, sharing hugs and comforting touches with his family without the flinching discomfort that would usually accompany such acts. It had been easier with Rick and Carol after a while, somehow just as easy with Paul now, but it was still new and unknown. What can he do in a position like this? Where can he look besides up and into Paul’s never-ending stare?

The tightening panic mounting in his chest dissolves when Paul’s slim fingers comb into his hair, the nails scraping against his scalp giving him an excuse to close his eyes and breathe easy, the slowing beat of his art a metronome hidden inside his eardrums.

It’s with his gaze shuttered from the world that Daryl focuses on the sounds around him the way he would have without a hitch not so long ago. The whistling of the breeze, what little leaves there are still clinging to branches giving a slow rustle every few seconds. The chorus of the crickets are low and fading, shifting away the more the season changes, the more the world does. And Daryl, too. He can see it in himself, _feel_  it, and hopes that it’s something good and worthwhile. That these feelings won’t get him or someone else killed when all he can focus on is Paul.

And won’t that also fade away? With the seasons and with the time, these prickling emotions eradicated along with the rest of humanity? Or -- if he’s adamant about exercising his new-found hope -- perhaps this affection will only become background noise, always there as a second nature, so long as it’s wanted. But he can’t know that and he won’t allow his mind to race to places that might not ever exist. There’s no point if it’s only one of them imagining, but--

But it’s _not_. With every stroke of Paul’s fingertips, caressing from his hair to his face, massaging the spot on Daryl’s temple that his little ninja had kissed before, the desire to understand and _know_  without a doubt where they stand grows insurmountable. He’ll say what he means, what he needs to, because Paul will always listen. Just like he said he would.

“Paul.”

There’s not an immediate response, no real indication that Paul even heard Daryl speak his name. His hands don’t still, he doesn’t sigh or ask what Daryl wants. He goes so long without saying anything that Daryl considers risking a look, to try and read Paul’s face for a reaction he’s otherwise not receiving.

Before he can move away from the hands still petting his head, twisting limp strands around lithe fingers, before Daryl can do anything but blink, the neutral set of Paul’s mouth twists with some sort of unseen conflict.

“I always-- I always thought it was odd, how some people couldn’t accept the way things change,” he tells Daryl quietly, although he might as well be talking to the sky with the way he stares up at the endless void. “The evolution of society over centuries, the wants and needs of a single individual throughout their lives, it’s such an inherent trait of the world. Especially this one, where a handful of days could change you just as effectively as a whole year would have.

“But me, with change? I chased it. You asked how I learned how to fight the way I do, remember? It was my dad, at first. He signed me up for classes that I didn’t even really like, mostly because the other kids thought I was weird and I thought they were assholes, and we all know what a great combination that is. But then he was just gone, one day, and I got put into a group home. The most I can say is that the transition wasn’t easy for me. The strangers, the rules and restrictions-- I’d gone so long with just me and my dad, more than half that time feeling as if it were really just _me_ , and then everything changed. Every time I got close to someone, they ended up gone. Every time I felt something like comfort, it’d get taken away. I was angry _all_ the time, and then… I wasn’t. I started up martial arts again and realized I could love it. That I _needed_  it when I hadn’t before. It gave me a hobby, it gave me discipline and freedom. It let me know myself during a time that I wished I could be anyone else, and then it let me do that, too.”

“The Jesus thing…”

“Part of it.”

Daryl keeps silent, keeping alert rather than getting lost in the all-consuming comfort of Paul’s touch. He could tell him he doesn’t have to talk about this, doesn’t owe Daryl an explanation for anything even if he knows he’s been feeling the ebbs of curiosity for a while now, but if he does that then Paul might think Daryl doesn’t care, that he doesn’t _want_ to hear it when really he could want nothing more than to know this man.

Paul had once told Daryl he would always listen to him. He can damn well promise the same, even if just by laying here.

“I never kept a job longer than a year,” Paul continues after a moment, a little more assured than before. He’s not _there_  anymore, just reliving it through thoughts. “I couldn’t settle in one place for longer than three, which meant the people I talked to, the people I called friends but knew they never really were, ended up becoming nothing more than a revolving door of blurred memories. And it never really mattered, but I _wanted_ it because it meant that nothing would stay the same. Honestly, up until all this started, I was an idealist convinced he was a realist instead. Because just having an idea _isn’t_  real, but what you experience _is_ , and so I figured early on that relying on anyone because of the connections you form would just… it would just lead to disappointment.”

Finally tilting his head down, Paul looks into Daryl’s face, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t been aware of how intently he was being watched. It’s only now that the movements of his hands halt and simply rest against his thigh, cradling Daryl’s head in his palms.

“And I told you before that if you care about people objectively, feeling their loss -- if they die or move on or disappear -- is different. That was an idea I had even before the dead started coming back to life, but I never clung to it so much as I did the day I found Hilltop. What I lost, what everyone was still losing, I didn’t want to go through that again. And so maintaining a distance between myself and the other colonists was easy, especially when the person I had to deal with most was Gregory.”

Daryl’s exhale of amusement seems to please Paul, the seriousness of his countenance waning for a spell, showing Daryl a glimpse of lightheartedness he could tell so desperately wanted to come out. Just not yet.

“I proved myself to him,” Paul continues, his expression slipping back into a distant mask with only the lines between his brows telling Daryl how difficult talking about himself on such a personal level is. And he’s never related to the younger man as much as he does now. “I went out when the few that were there couldn’t. I came back with everything he asked for. The fact that I was covered in blood is probably the reason he allows me so much freedom to this day. He’s a coward and the moment he found out I could hurt him was the moment he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t. He thought I was soft enough to believe he viewed me as a second in command, but I was really just an errand boy.”

“Yeah, well you ain’t no more.”

That smile again, drawn out by Daryl’s vehemence, and accompanied but a brush of fingertips to the nape of his neck. He clenches his jaw to stop the shiver that threatens to jolt through his body.

“I know. I can be useful and I’m skilled, so I’m worth something, but it was a different worth before. It feels like a different worth _now_. And that’s the point I’m trying to make, I think… how things have changed, what I believe and feel and who I am _right here._

"I care about our communities as more than just groups of survivors, as more than allies or friends. Once I saw how you worked at Alexandria, like a _family,_ I wanted that. Which opened up what I was guarding myself from and made me realize that things weren’t getting resolved with Alex because I was looking at the issue as if it’d already passed when he was still stuck in it. That’s why I wrote him the letter; I knew I was ready to let myself feel all of it. I could tell him about my anger and frustration and guilt, about how much I missed him and wished things had been different, that maybe they could have been in some other time, but that they _weren’t _.__  I could let him know how things were going to be, what I saw for the future. And I mentioned you because--”

Daryl imagines himself reaching out to shake Paul, demanding he just _spit it out already_ and say the words this whole rambling spiel has been leading up to. He’s growing antsier by the second, with his leg wobbling incessantly where it lies flat against the roof, uncertain if this is the conversation they’d been waiting on having or not.

“Things change now more than ever,” Paul resumes after a calming breath. Daryl keeps his head stock still against Paul’s leg, gaze flickering from the younger man’s face to land on the muddy toes of his boots, increasingly unsure of himself. “I think that’s one of the reasons I adapted so quickly. But at the same time, I’ve been having this idea that there are things I would like to evolve _with_  instead of away from. That there are things and relationships and people I want to keep for as long as I can without being afraid.

“I was supposed to tell you what I see that make us the same, aside from the fact that we both like each other.” Daryl’s breath, which he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, releases slowly when Paul locks onto him with that knowing, penetrative stare. Neither of them look away now. “Everything I just said-- I could see it in you right away, but I knew you couldn’t read it in me. I didn’t want you to. Now, I do.”

“Lotta people’re like that, y’know? Like you and me. That ain’t special.”

“But _you_  are.”

It’s that sentiment again, returning to incite another flame at the back of Daryl’s neck, a wave of heat rising to the surface of his cheeks. Blushing like a fucking teenager, probably even more than Carl does when Enid pays him mind.

“Why?” Daryl demands. His voice doesn’t crack either, dammit. “You ever gonna tell me that, huh? S’not gonna be just ‘cause you _care.”_

Paul laughs, actually _laughs,_ and Daryl would punch him if it weren’t for the fact that he becomes trapped in place by the intense _fondness_  pouring out of Paul’s touch and gaze.

“I’m not sure if you noticed, but I’ve been flirting since we brought you back to Hilltop, trying to gauge your response. It was just fun, at first. I got to express my attraction, which got a rise out of you, so a win all around.”

“Just fun?” Daryl bites out, back going stiff as a board. If that’s what this was, what he’d tricked himself out of believing... Of course. What a fucking __idiot.__  Paul didn’t want what Daryl wanted, he didn’t want _him._ “Just a game. So I’m makin’ it up. You ain’t gotta tell me all this shit, coulda just said you didn’t--”

“No. Hey, _no--”_ Paul stops Daryl from moving with an arm curling around his head as well as one draping over his chest, hovering rather than holding but still clear enough of a _don’t go_  that Daryl doesn’t. The bitter taste at the back of his throat makes him wish he’d just escape the humiliation before it fully sets in. “You’re not making shit up, Daryl. I said _at first._  It hasn’t been like that for a long time. Not since I kissed you.”

Daryl can recall the image of Paul’s face so close to his, the feel of those hands on his face and that soft mouth against his own. The memory isn’t the least bit fuzzy, is as clear as if it’d happened the day before. But so much time has passed since then, so many phases of their relationship, and _shit_  but Daryl had even kissed him back at Alexandria after he’d made an ass of himself on Barrington’s balcony. If he could even call that a kiss, anyway. It still counted.

“And it was never about me messing with you, either. Okay?” Paul tilts Daryl’s chin up to gather his full attention, to witness the full blown earnestness playing out for him. “I just-- I _liked_  you and I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t, but it wasn’t until you lashed out that I understood I made a mistake. Hindsight, as it goes. I wasn’t prepared for how much that bothered me, either. It wasn’t something I could brush off like I thought I would, you being so averse to it. _Me.”_

“Wasn’t ‘bout you, ‘kay? It wasn’t-- I just never… just didn’t know.”

“I get it. And I’m still sorry I pushed you. I was a little too eager, I guess.” The sheepish smile crinkling the edges of Paul’s eyes is what finally sweeps away the remnants of Daryl’s rigid reaction.

His nails scrape against the sleeve of his flannel as he says: “M’sorry, too. For bein’ an ass.”

“You weren’t that bad,” Paul assures. That familiar teasing glint in his eyes glimmers almost as brightly as the stars speckling the sky. “And look at you now. I’d say we’re pretty far passed what happened then.”

They are; so far beyond the days of first knowing each other that it feels like a lifetime already.

When he’d opened his eyes and saw Paul leaning over him, saving his life for nothing other than because he thought it was the right thing to do, embodying the nickname he still refused to call him. It was discomfort back then, not wanting to inflate his ego, not wanting to make him something he wasn’t, but then it become something else. He became _Paul,_ so entirely that Daryl wouldn’t know him as anything else. Not just a fighter or a scout or a negotiator, not just a good man, but someone with habits and flaws, wants and needs, anger and fear and happiness just from being alive. And when Daryl stopped viewing him as a stranger turned into an ally, when he’d started seeing the younger man with as much interest as Daryl himself had been seen, then things started changing.

Paul had visited him in the infirmary during his recovery from Sanctuary’s hell, giving him food and clothes and those damn books about Jesus just because he thought Daryl could use a laugh. He’d hunted with him, listened to what Daryl had to say and encouraged him to spread out rather than hunch back in on himself.

The things Paul said, the things he did, all leading up to him taking that chance on the balcony. If he was having trouble now telling him exactly what he felt, if he couldn’t get the right words out even with how much he dedicated himself to saying already, then Daryl could push himself to take that leap, too. Kissing him back at Alexandria was easy, a product of not knowing if either of them would make it out to explore things further. It was instinctive rather than a thought-out decision.

And he had a choice now, right here; to speak up for himself, to lead them to a fork in the road and hope they take the same path together.

“Daryl, I--”

Daryl’s sudden movement stops Paul from continuing with whatever he wanted to say, teeth digging into his bottom lip until it turned from red to white while Daryl pushes up from his lap. He doesn’t move from his spot, other than crossing his legs -- one foot beneath his knee and the other beneath his calf -- and twisting his torso enough to face Paul straight on.

“Hey, um… Paul--”

It’s a constant stop and start, push and pull, go but don’t go. He knows what to say, just not how to say it. And it doesn’t help that all he receives from Paul in the midst of his struggling is quiet patience and  wide-eyed indulgence. He’s never had much trouble saying what he wanted, expressing himself when it came to something so simple and true, even when it was an emotion beyond anger or distaste.

But the way he felt for Paul? That _is_  simple. It’s true. It doesn’t have to be some huge complexity that makes his head ache and his insides get all tangled up with nerves that don’t make him feel like a giddy jackass, and it doesn’t have to make him afraid of what comes next.

They make a damn good team. It’s Daryl’s turn to fold the slack into something better for the both of them.

“You’re gonna tell me all that, but you ain’t sayin’ what you mean. So I will.” The breath he takes isn’t exactly a sigh. It’s not a sharp exhale, either. Just a desperate little huff, timed with the flex of his hands against his knees. “You and me? That’s what I want. And I ain’t good with this kinda thing ‘cause I never had to be, never wanted to be, but all I know is… I ain’t gonna feel like this for no one else and I ain’t gonna _want_  no one else. You’re it for me. And if-- if that’s not somethin’ you want, then you gotta tell me now.”

The wild thumping in his chest goes from full force to nothing, his heart freezing in its cage. He doesn’t even hear the breath Paul so clearly exhales, the rise and fall of his chest giving no insight into the recesses of his thoughts. Daryl thinks he can just make out a new wetness to his eyes in the dark, but that could be an effect of his own in this state; a fragile mess that’s terrified and liberated all at once, ready to come out stronger no matter which way Paul responds.

And what the fuck did he even just say? It sounded an awful lot like the shit that came out of those sappy romance movies he used to come across on TV once in a while. Some kind of love confession? He doesn’t-- He’s not-- Well, he doesn’t know what it is or it isn’t, but it’s not hard to guess that something like this could send Paul running before they even got back to Hilltop, especially with everything he’d just told him.

They look away at the same time, Daryl snapping his head in the opposite direction just as Paul begins to fidget with his wrist. He gets a brief flash behind his eyelids of him going back inside the RV rather than coming up here, falling asleep until Paul came to wake him up for watch. They could have talked about this some other night in some other way, without spending a day being lured by the intoxication of his presence. But he chose what he chose and saying those words to Paul won’t ever be something he’ll regret.

The touch against Daryl’s head only makes him flinch because of the unexpectedness of it. He calms immediately when it clicks that it’s just Paul’s hand tucking limp hair behind his ear to get an actual view of Daryl’s face.

“I want you, too.”

When Daryl allows himself to peek over at the younger man, certain of what he heard but not certain of why, his lips part at the sight he’s met with. Paul’s expressive features dictate an emotion Daryl’s never quite seen him express before. An amalgamation of familiar creases, a confounding formation that Daryl can _feel_  rather than comprehend. Triumphant vulnerability, unwavering endearment, apprehension set just below the surface and too weak to dampen the overwhelming tide of everything else.

“There are a hundred things I could say right now, Daryl. But would you believe me if I said I didn’t know how?” Damn him and that laugh, that little chuckle that Daryl wishes he could hear at least once every day for the rest of his pitiful life. “If you could see yourself through my eyes -- and God, I wish you could at least once -- then you’d get it. I wouldn’t have to say another word. You’d just _know._ But you don’t and so the only thing I can say is _yes,_ I want that just as much. I want _you,_ probably more than I’ve ever wanted anything and that’s terrifying, but it’s-- I dunno. I didn’t think we’d be having this conversation. I mean, I knew it was coming, I just wasn’t expecting you to be so blunt about it. I should say something else, um…”

The more anxious Paul gets, the calmer Daryl does. Gone is the younger man’s eloquence, replaced by flustered floundering caused by Daryl’s confession. If it was ever an appropriate time for Daryl to admit to himself that Paul could be _cute,_ it has to be now.

“Since when you ever been outta words, huh?”

Paul takes the tease for what it is, grinning in a way that makes Daryl’s insides go _uh-oh._

“You leave me speechless, Daryl. I can’t help it.”

_Of course._

“A’right. Keep your mouth shut then. Don’t wanna hear shit like that.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He slugs Paul’s chest with the side of his fist, a firm enough tap to feel but definitely not to hurt. It has its desired outcome, widening Paul’s grin into one of beaming beauty. The little ninja catches Daryl’s hand in his before he can pull away, cupping it between both of his own and settling it atop the thigh Daryl’s head had rested on earlier.

Although Daryl can only make out the shape of Paul’s knuckles in the dim light cast down from the moon, he pretends he can see the lines and the bruises, waiting only a moment before he starts to graze the pad of his thumb across the indentations.

One weight’s been lifted, but another has taken its place. Because now that they both know, without a doubt, that this is what they want, the obstacles of having to nurture such a relationship could potentially prove too much for either of them to handle.

Daryl stops caressing Paul’s hand, leaving it to relax in the warmth of Paul’s gentle grasp. He doesn’t know why he licks his lips when his mouth feels even drier.

“I dunno what I’m doin’.”

“That’s because you’re not _doing_ anything yet.”

He shrugs off the attempted placation, ragged nails digging into the palm of his free hand.

“Nah. I’m gonna fuck it up somehow, y’know? ‘Cause I won’t get it. Not if it’s me. Not with you."

“If we start with that mindset then sure, we’ll have some problems,” Paul says almost flippantly. He’s anything _but_ when he continues, voice fiercely vehement, moving one hand from his lap to land atop Daryl’s shoulder. “But listen to me: I’ve had relationships before, that’s true. Some were good and some were… not so good, but they always ended for one reason or another, usually because of me. Something I did or didn't do. It won’t be long before you realize you aren’t the only one who can fuck this up. And… you know that this is just as new to me as it is to you, right? You get that? Because I’ve never been with anyone like you before. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you, either. And maybe one day I’ll be able to look at you and everything I wish I could say right now will suddenly pop into my head like a fact I’ve known all my life, but even then I doubt that’ll be enough for either of us. The only thing that matters is that… I’m _with you,_ Daryl.”

His body reacts before his mind is able to, leaning into Paul when his little ninja cups his jaw, nails digging into the hair at his nape, almost exactly the way he had back on that balcony.

Paul thumbs the rough stubble across his cheek so tenderly it makes Daryl’s eyes sting, but here’s nothing to block his throat when he swallows, nothing to stop him inhaling the scent of Paul’s soap when he draws up onto his knees and teeters close enough to press their foreheads together.

If it’s Paul that tilts his chin up first, the tip of his nose squishing against his cheek, then Daryl matches his movement a half a second later, slotting their mouths together roughly. It’s not much more than a quick peck, an exploration of lips on lips; different than Paul’s curious leap or Daryl’s stinging rush of adrenaline, yet still promising a current of electricity creeping through his bones. Only a taste of what could be. What they now know will be.

It tingles down his spine when their mouths meet a second time, just as quickly, though more firm. Leading. Daryl’s hands reach for Paul’s hips, clawing the leather of his coat like a lifeline. And when Paul pulls back for that brief reactionary respite, a little quaking breath, Daryl darts right back in to follow the invisible tether that’s been there from the start.

A kiss, this time. Deliberate. Daryl’s too-dry lips trap Paul’s, drowning in too-soft and too-rough. A plush drag, igniting bundles of nerves, jolting through the knots in his stomach. Thick, coarse hair scratching against graying scruff, an itch to a tickle. Strange and magnificent. Too much and not enough, all the same.

There’s no seamless transition between one kiss falling into another. Not at first. And although it isn’t as bumpy as Daryl trying to drive a stick, it’s just as obvious he’s not as practiced as he could be. His teeth clank against Paul’s when they move in at the same time, noses hitting painfully when they turn the same way, and Daryl has to pull away every few seconds to mentally question Paul choosing a redneck asshole to get involved with. _If you could see yourself through my eyes…_ Maybe he doesn’t want to know what Paul sees anymore. Maybe he doesn’t need to, if it’s like this.

The hands that flit across his hair, his neck, his jaw, never cease; reconstructing that comforting bubble they’d found in the trailer’s bathroom, easing Daryl second-by-second and convincing him to let those doubts dissolve into the surrounding blackness. To let go of the lies that tell him _no, you can’t, you're not worth it._

_Ain’t nobody ever gonna care ‘bout you ’cept me, little brother._

_I’m with you, Daryl._

The blanketing warmth against his mouth is incessant, goading him to match the yearning of his partner. The last bit of his resolve crumbles when Paul’s hand slides from his nape to his neck, curling into the old wings, resting above the scars he knows are etched into the skin beneath all the cloth. He lets go of the coat to wrap a hand around the back of Paul’s neck, a fistful of hair mingling with the feel heated skin.

His breath sounds more like a huff, quiet to the world but loud to Daryl’s ears. It’d vibrate through his bones, if it could; already feels like it does when it’s followed by an incoherent murmur Paul chooses to snuff out by way of a kiss. Deeper, frantic in movement and unhurried in speed. And Daryl still doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, but he knows that’s alright. There’s no confusion this time, no embarrassment outside of his own incompetence, no shame. Just… awe.

He carries on with that wildfire flickering to life again, sending warm sparks through his gut on a blazing trail up through his chest to settle.

A slow, wet slide. Open mouthed. Building timidly for a rough and steady sail. Paul tries to remain gentle, although Daryl’s hand fisting the front of his vest seems to make it more difficult. His bite is stinging to Daryl’s bottom lip, but he soothes him soon after with peppered kisses, a languid suck that jump-starts the swell in his stomach. His heart had been a metronome before but it's a war drum now, almost uncomfortable in its rapid pulsing. If he has a heart attack because of this, he’ll punch his lil shit into next week.

He tries to say so, in fact, mostly to grab a breath he can’t seem to catch. But rather than words tumbling through his swollen lips, a sound like a wounded animal emits from his throat.

And okay, there’s the embarrassment.

The only thing Daryl can think of is to bury his face in the crook of Paul’s neck and shoulder, which hides his grimace and allows him to gasp for breath without looking like an idiot. His hands drop from Paul’s hair, fingers untangling, rucking up the trench coat to find a spot on the younger man’s back to settle.

The shaking begins immediately then, Paul’s torso quivering with laughter that remains silent for only a handful of seconds, and then the giggling becomes audible to his ears. It’s that awful, self-loathing portion of his being that says Paul is laughing _at_  him, but those thoughts are combated by how snugly Paul draws him inward. Hugging him. Holding him. This, at least, is a gesture they’ve explored before.

He’s still chuckling when Daryl grunts into his neck, muffled but by no means soured: _“Shut up.”_

“No. That was cute.”

Daryl pulls himself back, fully intending to give Paul his best glare, but he never gets to. Hands cupping his jaw, sliding onward to twine at his nape again, is the first thing that makes his expression slacken. The tender press of lips parting his own, slotting perfectly, tender and slick and slow -- that’s what draws him straight back in, as if they’d never stopped. That rarely impractical niche inside his brain let’s him know he never wants to.

He’s not bothered by how soon Paul draws back because he can feel those lips against his cheek next, spread into such a beaming smile that teeth scrape his skin. When he speaks, his voice is both thick and joyously light.

“You good?”

“Yeah. M’good.”

“Me too.”

Daryl’s heart rate begins to ease as he catches his breath. The crackling of a fire still burns distantly deep inside, kept alive by the points of contact Paul maintains just as well as the heavy gaze capturing his attention.

 _Now what?_  That’s the newest question. What do they do? Where do they go from here? He supposes not much will change, in actuality. He’s already been sleeping in Paul’s trailer, living there as if it were supposed to be his from the start. And the way they’d set about acting with and around each other, that would all probably shift subtly with both of them finding a balance in regards to what they should and shouldn’t do.

While the chances of Daryl waking up any moment, only to find that he’d fallen asleep on Paul’s leg and that none of this had happened are relatively slim, Daryl can’t shake the idea that he’d gotten lovesick enough to dream up this whole thing. The world was crazy; he might as well be, too. But he can tell, just like he could back at Hilltop, that this is _real_. He can allow himself the peace of this moment just for now. And if something were to happen come morning, he’d at least know what he could've had.

“You should get some sleep,” Paul tells him softly. The thickness of his voice has smoothed out, tone returning to that mesmerizing calmness Daryl’s gotten himself too hooked on.

He has to go a little cross-eyed to get a good look at Paul’s face with how close it is, although he can’t concentrate on much of anything when the younger man nuzzles his nose against Daryl’s grizzled jaw.

Daryl follows the urge to reach up to smooth Paul’s hair away from his face, tucking some behind both of his ears, which feel unusually hot to the touch. He feels a little bit vindicated by the knowledge that Paul is blushing because of him.

But he’s right, of course; Daryl should take advantage of sleep while he can. He’ll need it for the morning and there’s no telling how the next night will pan out, if it’ll be as good and easy as this one.

“You’re gonna wake me up?”

“I will,” Paul reassures. Then, with a cheeky smirk: “Should I get the cow?”

“Get the elephant. See what happens.”

Paul’s fingers comb through his hair as he laughs, rucking it up and then tossing it back when the wind gets a little too zealous in playing with it. He knocks his shoulder into Daryl’s playfully, but doesn’t say anything in response. Waits, instead, to see what Daryl’s next move will be. If he’ll stand, say goodnight, shove Paul in return.

Daryl does none of these things.

His head hits the meat of Paul’s thigh when he flops down, the muscles tensing on impact but relaxing almost immediately afterward, once he realizes that Daryl is resuming the position he’d pulled him into before they’d shoved through all of their emotional constipation.

Daryl wriggles atop the roof until he’s satisfied with his spot, then goes completely still save for the deliberately slow rise and fall of his chest. It takes only seconds for a hand to slip back into his hair, neatly trimmed nails scratching at his scalp in a soothing rhythm.

It’d make more sense to go back into the RV, leave each other alone with their thoughts for the night without anything to cloud their judgment on what the next move regarding their __relationship__  will be, but Daryl’s already committed to this -- has already made himself comfortable, in all honesty -- and he can’t force himself to move now. Why should he when he knows, maybe not _without_  a shadow of a doubt but as close to it as Daryl could ever come, that Paul wants him here?

An autumn breeze washes over them, prickling his skin with coolness. Not enough to make his body convulse with a shiver or to make him get up for a blanket, but just enough that Daryl finds himself curling his knees and pressing his nose into Paul’s leg, seeking his warmth without hesitance.

“Goodnight, Angel.”

It doesn’t sound as if these words are meant for Daryl’s ears, but he hears them anyway, or perhaps is delusional enough to hear them in his half-asleep state. He has just enough energy to respond with a grumbled sentiment of his own.

“Night, asshole.”

Paul’s fond hum is the last thing he hears, a hand over his chest the last thing he feels, before his mind settles into the beginnings of restfulness.

* * *

 

Sunlight. Not blazing or high in the sky, but bright enough for Daryl to take note of just as his eyelids begin to lazily drift open. His vision is blurred by sleep, but the rays of a rising sun are a conclusive indicator that it’s no longer nighttime. Which means Daryl had slept longer than he was supposed to, which _also_  means that Paul very much did not wake him up for his turn on watch.

Dammit.

His mind begins to function more fully after a moment of blinking away the sleep, which is when he notices that his head isn’t pillowed by one of Paul’s limbs like it had been when he fell asleep. It’s not just metal that’s under his head now, though, but rather a scrunched up leather trench coat to soften the hardness the rest of his body is feeling.

Speaking of, the flannel covering his arms is already making him sweat, and so his first order of business is to sit up and shrug the damn thing off. Of course, he has to pull the vest away first, draping it down to-- Oh, there’s a boot in front of him. Daryl hadn’t even thought about whether or not Paul was still around, despite knowing he’d no longer been touching him. He’s so used to either waking up alone or surrounded by one of the group that he doesn’t take notice of them anymore.

But he takes notice of Paul, as he always does, squinting in the morning sun to make out the way he’s sprawled out across the small piece of rectangular roof that’s held them up all night. He’s got one leg stretched out fully, the other crossed over his knee at the calf, and because of the angle his body is twisted Daryl can see that his hands are cradling his own head this time, his elbows pointing out the trees and houses still surrounding their stationary position. He’s got his eyes closed, but Daryl’s rustling prompts him to crack one open, which then also prompts a smile to light up his face. Daryl huffs.

“You get any sleep?”

He has a hunch about the answer he’ll get, so he’s not surprised when Paul reaffirms it.

“I dozed a little, I’ll admit, but I’ve been awake for the most part. Keeping watch, like I said.”

“You forget I was s’posed to take shift or what? Said you’d wake me.”

“I know.” Paul pushes up into a sitting position as Daryl shakes off his jacket, freeing his arms from their constraints. The sudden rush of air is more than welcome, as is Paul’s gaze dropping to the newly bared skin, though Daryl would never admit it. The younger man’s eyebrow rises, mouth opening long before any words come out. He shakes himself out of it in no time, leaving a different kind of heat to return beneath Daryl’s skin. “I tried, but you looked… peaceful. More than I’ve ever seen you. I wasn’t tired, so I decided to sit it out myself. And as you can see, nothing happened.”

“You already gonna be pullin’ shit like this?”

Paul’s smile softens, although in no way diminishing. He crosses his legs and lurches forward in a fluid motion, rocking forward to press a kiss to Daryl’s mouth. He grabs onto Daryl’s forearms to keep himself in position, lingering just long enough for the would-be chaste meeting of lips to ascend into breath-hitching territory.

The younger man’s hands slide down Daryl’s forearms, tracing very briefly the ink marks still drawn across his skin. It’s as if Paul can _feel_  it, the way his mouth pulls against Daryl’s, that go-to smirk forming before he ends the kiss and let’s himself rock back into an upright position. 

“Morning.”

“Mornin’.”

Daryl grabs Paul’s coat and tosses it to him after a few blinks, then wraps the flannel back around his waist. The sky is swathed with more gray than pink, hints of yellow a visualization of the warmth rising around their perch. He watches a single leaf flutter to the ground.

“Still early… Could catch a few hours, if you need. Me and Tara can wait. We got time.”

“I’ve done a lot more with a lot less.” Paul stretches his arms over his head. “At the risk of sounding like Tara: we’ve got this.”

He gets it. Sleep is a luxury these days. If Paul doesn’t need it, doesn’t want it, then Daryl will have to trust his judgment. They way he’s eyeing Daryl now says all he needs to know about the level of alertness the younger man is currently possessing. As in, maybe a little too much.

Daryl doesn’t crack a smile like he might want to.

“You think Tara’s up yet?”

“Nah. We’d know if she was.”

She’d be chatting their ears off, probably. Or saying something, __anything__  to embarrass Daryl before silence became a necessity rather than an option.

The road behind them is as empty as far as his eye can see, save for a few cars acting as statues stuck to stained driveways. They could check them, maybe find something useful like they had back at that pile-up, or just take a walk to pass the time. Enjoy the fresh air before it’s overcome by rotten flesh once they thrust themselves into a new battle.

“Gonna take a walk,” he murmurs, purposefully subtle even though he doesn’t have to be. He could straight up say _hey, you wanna come along?_  He hadn’t minded asking him to come out on his hunt when Maggie insisted he shouldn’t go alone, but things were different now. After last night… He wouldn’t be asking him to skip around the place with their hands glued together, but it feels to much like that now. Daryl just needs to get himself comfortable with the knowledge that this is happening and maybe then he won’t be worried about screwing up before Paul does.

His staring and lack of movement despite his statement seem to clue Paul in on Daryl wanting something without being able to voice it properly. All his courage seemed to fade once morning light washed away the darkness, leaving him with consequences that he’s for once happy with.

“Am I waiting for an invitation?”

“Don’t need one.” He turns then, stepping over to the ladder, pressing his boot onto one of the rungs. Throwing a look over his shoulder, he questions: “You comin’ or not?”

Paul scrambling to his feet is answer enough.

They hit the ground with gentle thuds, Paul pausing his steps when Daryl reaches for the RV door first. He creeps in and out almost noiselessly, snatching his bow to carry along on their impromptu journey. He thinks about leaving a note for Tara, deciding against it after a second of deliberation, figuring that his preferred weapon’s lack of presence will be enough to clue her in.

A particularly loud snuffle from her in the far corner is what ushers him back outside, the door making the smallest of clicks as he shuts it tightly. He meets Paul’s side with a couple of quick strides and then, just like that, the two of them are on their way.

Their hands brush with their leisurely pace and neither of them speaks for a long while. Daryl fiddles with one of the arrows his pulls from the mounted quiver, shaking it by his hip while Paul looks every which way, taking it all in. They stick to the spots of shade on the road as the sky continues to brighten, sunny beams soaking into Daryl’s skin and making Paul’s hair glint golden every time they step out of the shadows.  

There’s a cul-de-sac they pass without pause, although Daryl knows Paul has mapped it to memory for the next time they come back here. And there will be a next time, without a doubt. The area is too rife with potential to ignore. But they do for now, temporarily content to just walk on without a care.

Daryl looks to Paul, not blinking or turning away when Paul catches him staring. He gets a smirk for his attention, but it’s more than just cocky or sly. Paul looks… happy. Genuinely. Just a man enjoying the scenery as if they’re on vacation instead of minutes away from splattering themselves with blood and guts. When Paul pulls his hair up and off his shoulders and neck to tie it messily at the crown of his head, Daryl recalls a conversation they’d had before, reminding him that things truly are coming together.

_So if I could do anything in the world right now, I’d go out scouting. With you._

“Hey, this is what you wanted, ain’t it?”

Paul searches Daryl’s face for __one, two, three__  seconds before he picks up on exactly what Daryl is referring to. Somehow, his good mood increases further

“Yeah,” he says. The word quivers with his laughter. “Yeah, it is. The first trip of many, I hope.”

“It will be.”

Daryl doesn’t know that. He can’t promise it even if his statement sounds assured, even if he wants to believe it. What Daryl _does_ know is that Paul deserves this sense or relief and joy and that, maybe one day, Daryl will deserve it too. Because how can anyone continue to view the world as nothing more than cold and lifeless if they have such a bright beacon showing them otherwise?

God, he’s fucked.

He couldn’t care less.

He catches a sight out of the corner of his eye when their feet carry them to yet another cul-de-sac. Reaching out with his arm stops Paul from going any further, halting him in his spot and turning his grinning expression into concentrated seriousness. Daryl shakes his head in hopes to alleviate his worries, then presses a finger to his lips, telling him to keep quiet.

Paul doesn’t follow when Daryl shuffles a few paces forward, gaze glued to his back. He takes a breath and readies his bow, firing the arrow he’d been toying with the moment his aim lands squarely on the squirrel that had darted from one of the overgrown yards. He gets it clean through, even better than he had in the woods with a slingshot. There’s a strange sense of nostalgia that occurs whenever he’s out hunting wildlife rather than human enemies. It makes Daryl feel useful like few other things can.

Speaking of useful…

Daryl grabs the tail and lifts it into the air for inspection. The groan behind him is a bit theatrical, but still truthful all the same. He has no qualms about showing Paul his own smirk when he turns around to wave the dead animal in his direction.

“Got your breakfast,” he teases. It feels like even more of a win when Paul laughs his dumb little chuckle, bright eyes rolling with clear amusement.

“I’m swooning,” he deadpans, arms crossing over his chest. “The romance is alive.”

“We never said nothin’ about no damn romance, Paul. You best remember that,” Daryl quibbles. It’s a joke. Mostly.

He’s already been reduced to an idiot who gets all warm and fuzzy anytime Paul so much as acknowledges his existence, and he’d risked making a full of himself only hours earlier by putting everything he had out on a platter for Paul to look over. It’s a miracle that after all he’d witnessed of Daryl, they were both still willing to try.

Daryl has never been _romantic_  and he nearly pales at even the thought of having to try.

But nerves are fine. Nerves are _normal._  The reassuring voice in his head sounds like a combination of Rick and Carol and that’s even more frightening than the prospect of romance itself, honestly. Daryl would cringe, but his reaction stops before it can even start when Paul begins to close the distance between them. Daryl nearly snaps to attention when the younger man stops right in front of him, so close that their chests meet.

“You say that _now,_ but just wait.” Taking the squirrel from Daryl with one hand, Paul uses the other to comb the hair from Daryl’s squinted eyes. “We’re both gonna make fools of ourselves, don’t worry. But that’s the fun part, isn’t it? Well, _one_  fun part.”

Paul doesn’t kiss him like Daryl anticipates, like he wants, which has to be _why_ he doesn’t follow through. Asshole. And now he’s back to the flirting that Daryl’s getting better at recognizing, knowing it’s not _just_ a joke, but a product of the feelings they both share. Choosing not to indulge in Paul’s back and forth seems like the best choice at the moment, no matter how much Daryl might secretly want to.

“C’mon.” What starts as Daryl clasping Paul’s arm to turn him towards the direction they came evolves into that arm stretching out across firm, relaxed shoulders, drawing Paul into his side because he has no reason why he can’t. “Could find a few more ‘fore headn’ back. Shouldn’t leave Tara that long.”

* * *

 

Hopping fences to cut through yards ended up being a smart move. They’d only had to strike a handful of walkers down with Daryl bagging two more squirrels before he and Paul circled back to the RV.

They’d found Tara standing near the door, toying with her yo-yo as she glanced at her surroundings. When she heard the two approaching, her eyes landing on the pair, her beginnings of a smile drooped into playful disgust at the sight of the squirrels dangling from Daryl’s grasp.

 _“Gross,”_ was all she’d said on the matter. But when Paul sat down on the pavement to help Daryl clean and cook the meat the way they had the first time, Tara came through to do her own as well, never one to shy away from anything.

It’s back to business before they finish cleaning off their knives and hands.

The plan is mostly simple. Maybe not as well thought out as it could be, with someone like Maggie or Rick leading the charge, but Paul deems it safely executable and that’s good enough for Daryl.

They begin at the line of cars.

Tara draws her gun, holding her stance while Daryl and Paul slide across a hood, slipping their way through the barrier to dart towards the closest house. They flatten themselves against the siding, heads turned to get a better listen at the not-so-far groaning. They’ve got a clear view of Tara from where she aims on the other side of the barrier. The second Daryl nods, Tara pulls the trigger.

 _Bang. Bang. Bang._ All at even intervals, the echoing shots punctuated by the kicking of metal doors or shouts of provocation, a perfect combination of noise to draw the closest lurkers forward.

“Hey, you ugly asshole! C’mere! Yeah, come on. You want some of this? Tough shit, you won’t get anyway, but you can still try!”

She continues to fire as they roam towards her, erasing some of the threat one by one while also causing enough of a distraction for Paul and Daryl to get to the meat of things.

Houses remain sufficient cover for their crouched rush forward, the pair peeking out from behind the left and right corner to keep a continuous watch on what awaits beyond. The farther down the stretch of street the walkers are, the less interested they seem in Tara’s racket, but others remain driven by the promising sounds even as their decaying buddies drop like flies around them.

Tara’s Smith & Wesson can only shoot so far, not to mention her stockpile of limited ammo. The RV is parked right behind her for an easy escape if need be, but it was still very possible for her to get overrun if too many piled up and started crawling across the low wall keeping her from harm. And if she did have to do a safety lap around the block, that would leave Paul and Daryl inside the quartered section with two tall gates assuring only one of them getting out alive. He’d thought about the worst case scenarios, he’s sure Tara and Paul had as well, so Daryl knows without a doubt that he’d hoist the younger man up first in the same way Eduardo had, consequences be damned. Of course, Paul was heavier than he looked and strong enough -- stubborn enough -- to stop Daryl if he could gather himself quicker than he had out in that field with the bus...

But Daryl won’t dwell on that. This is easy pickings as far as all the other dangerous operations they’d pushed through are concerned. There’s nothing else to think about except getting it _done._

Paul gives a sharp nod to Daryl only seconds after they dart behind another house, his whole demeanor slackening with a relaxed intensity that could only come with close-combat battles. And even though Daryl’s seen enough of Paul kicking, punching, and slicing his way to victory, Daryl pops his head around the corner to get a glimpse of him in action.

He’s quiet enough to sneak up to one and snake an arm around its neck, yanking back to sink the blade of his dagger into the base of its before it can even gnash its teeth. Paul pushes the body towards another that turns his way, stomping the head when it falls with a _thump _.__ He zips across the street without pause, fully prepared to hold down the left while Daryl strikes from the right.

It’s go time.

Arrow after arrow after arrow, fired at targets the farthest he can hit, never missing one. He sticks to the right, no longer crouching but still discreet. Watching and waiting as any predator would, ready for the pounce. He doesn’t follow that impulsive thread, however, and sticks to downing them from a distance until he runs out of arrows to use. He can still hear Tara’s gunfire, her yells drifting into hoarse echoes the faster he traverses ahead.

Daryl sees flashes of Paul every time he takes a breath and aims, his mind barely able to register the sudden sight of him in action before he slinks away again. It’s this disappearing act that gives Daryl pause for an idea.

Being out in the open draws nearly as much attention as Tara’s distraction. Then he doesn’t hear gunfire any longer, just rattling, which means the sight of a living, breathing pile of meat is now more appealing than the loud _bang-bang_  previously taking hold of base instinct. Daryl can lead them to the back wall, then loop around behind the houses covering Paul’s whereabouts. Form a more unified group to take out from the front, like a firing squad. Similar to what they’d done at the barn.

Daryl cringes at the thought, trying to rid the unwelcome itch the memory produces at the back of his throat with a swallow, but it could be worth a shot, taking one risk to eliminate another. And besides, he’s got half a dozen on his trail already, the ones he’d sidestepped in order to down the distant geeks.

His whistle pierces through the air, shrill even to his own ears, and it repeats until more begin a slow march his way.

“What, no!” Daryl he hears Tara shout. Hoping she gets the hint with his continuous call, Daryl steps further out onto the road.

 _“Daryl!”_ a familiar voice hisses from somewhere off to his side. He doesn’t see Paul at first, not until he looks _up._ The little ninja’s on one of the roofs, hunkered down with his back against one dormer and the sole of his boot pressed to another. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What the hell’re _you_  doin’?”

“Trying to get a bird’s eye view. Are you _corralling_  them? Daryl--”

“Meet me by the gates!”

He catches the mocking tone of his words thrown back at him when Paul grumbles _“meet me by the gates”_ just before Daryl shouts to the walkers the way Tara had.

Paul drops off the roof and into a roll, springing back up as Daryl turns to pick up the pace.

The pack trailing them grows larger, just not by much. Daryl doesn’t doubt that this section is smaller than the others, giving them some luck on their first go at clearing what once was a safe-zone. They’ll have bigger problems, but the one they’re tackling in this moment won’t eat up too much more of their limited amount of time.

Paul catches up to him easily and soon enough it’s the two of them running side-by-side, rushing towards the gate they now have completely in their sights, as well as the emergence of at least three more clusters of groaning carcasses.

Momentum brings them slamming into the clothed gate with a clatter. The shuffling behind them grows louder.

“Wish-- wish you had more a them firecrackers,” Daryl pants, internally cursing himself for getting old __and__ for being a smoker while also trying to tick away the seconds before they need to start making their way back around again. “They’d make you useful, at least.”

Paul, who is significantly less winded but still not quite up to par, shoots Daryl a glare so withering that it’d draw a laugh in any other situation. Daryl’s too out of breath for that shit right now.

“I said I’d kick your ass once, didn’t I? I’m still considering it.”

“Ain’t got time for considerin’. Go on--”

He shoves Paul, physically forcing him action as soon as clawing hands get progressively closer. They have to be fast to get the drop on the ones shambling at the rear, to get enough distance not to be overrun when starting their final attack. But that shouldn’t be a problem, anyway; the whole point of turning them around was to get Tara and the row of cars in the correct direction needed for an escape. And having them all grouped together like this, with their strange herd mentality, makes it all the more easier to cut down.

It shouldn’t surprise Daryl that Paul runs directly towards the side of a house, his momentum taking him straight up it like a some kind of giant cat. Not even Ezekiel's tiger would do something like this. Only a smug asshole show-off like Paul could.

He pulls himself up to scramble across rooftops, hopping between them with increasing clumsiness that still somehow manages to look _right._ All the while Daryl sticks to the back of the homes, climbing over yard fences that haven’t been bulldozed and then hauling ass once more with weakened knees. The good news is all the bodies scattered around him, most of them probably a result of Paul’s earlier efforts. Another win for him. Of course, it’s not a competition, this whole thing is too serious and dangerous and strenuous to be exhilarating, but Daryl’s thoughts still hound him with the fact that he’ll have to step up his game at some point.

His breathing comes in rasps when he and Paul meet up on the street again, mere feet away from the roamers that had been the farthest when they’d touched the gate. Now, they were the ones trying to tear at sweat drenched skin, only neither Paul or Daryl would let them get that close.

Knives become the main source of power at this range. It’s effective, noiseless in case anything they missed tries to flank them. It requires more strength an effort than a shot or an arrow, but it’s an option that gives Paul somewhat of a break. From the brief look Daryl gets of him when pulling back from a lunge, the guy could definitely use it. At least he’ll be able to nag him about not waking Daryl for watch like he was supposed to.

The repeated squelching of blood melds together in a twisted symphony, one that’s as familiar to Daryl as the sound of his own heartbeat. Even if it’s disconcerting, it’s something he can’t help appreciate hearing because it means he’s alive, it means he’s still fighting and that the person next to him is fighting just as hard.

Blood coats his blade, streaks his hands, smears his face. The coppery, sickening smell invades his senses until the walls come up to push the scent out, numbness cascading over his body to create fluid motions he doesn’t need to ponder. It’s almost as mindless as the beasts they’re stabbing, but he knows the difference. This isn’t fun, he can hear Beth’s voice telling him so. the way she had when he’d turned into a bitter asshole trying to mask his pain with rage. How many miles away from then is he now?

Fast approaching rumbles startle him before the sudden honking, causing both of them to turn their backs on their very urgent task. His vision is taken up entirely by the RV racing into the fray, with Tara manning the wheel, her arm waving frantically from beyond the windshield as if the blaring of the horn wasn’t enough of a warning.

He’s sure Paul lurches away at the same time he does, both narrowly escaping the vehicle barreling past them. The grill knocks into the group with crushing force to clear a path straight down the middle, blood splattering out against the window and the pavement beneath the wheels.

The RV’s deceleration is only obvious when Tara attempts to steering away from a head on collision with the gate, resulting with the right side of the clunky vehicle ramming heavily into the blockade. His heart drops into his stomach as he sees Tara jerk from the impact inside the driver’s seat.

Daryl bats away the walkers that come at him when he rushes towards the still sputtering behemoth, caving their snarling faces in with mighty swings of his bow. Her reckless stunt took out the majority of what he and Paul were hacking away at, sure, but it wouldn’t be worth much if she sustained another head injury. She’d been lucky to wake up last time as is.

“Tara!”

Paul echoes his voice, racing around to shadow Daryl, popping up at his side after pulling his dagger free from decrepit meat. He drops his crossbow and reaches for the handle to yank open, jumping inside and immediately reaching over to cut the ignition.

He grabs onto her shoulder to push her into the seat a little more, scanning her body for any quick and obvious injuries. Nothing seems out of place at first glance, save for a gash near her temple that’s gleaming bright red.

“Tara--”

 _“Fuck,”_ she spits. From that alone, he breathes a sigh of relief. “Fucking shit. Ugh--”

“Tara,” Paul says clearly and calmly. He bumps into Daryl’s side, leaning as close as he’s able to get. “Breathe. Just focus on that, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” She winces, but does as Paul instructs, chest rising on an inhale and lips pursing on an exhale. “But I’m fine. Really.”

“Can you look at Daryl?”

Tara cracks an eye open, specks of brown and green standing out in the sunlight glaring through the glass. One pupil contracts properly, the other following when she blinks it open as well. Daryl scowls.

“What the hell was that? Coulda got one of us killed. Hurt yourself! Wrecked this piece a shit--”

“Whoa, _hey!”_  she argues in reply. “You’re the one who went off script. What the hell was _that,_ huh? And I mean, why should you guys get all the fun, anyway? I took out a shitload just now, so you’re welcome, and-- Shit, Daryl!”

“I got it,” Paul says with ease before Daryl can even react properly.

He turns to see Paul kick at a walker and dispatch the other two with his blades, bending to end the one that had landed on the ground. And now it’s his turn to take a deep breath, everything coming back to him all at once as it usually does. The beating of his heart is as fast as it was the night before when Paul had kissed him, but he feels sick this time rather than elated.

 _“Jesus…”_ Tara breathes.

Daryl snorts when Paul’s voice sounds with a very prompt: _“What?”_

“Not you. The other Jesus.”

“Okay, good.”

Tara gingerly touches the sensitive skin around her cut, trying to gauge its seriousness. Her reaction isn’t one of panic, which helps Daryl take another breather as well as a step back.

“Wanna grab the first-aid kit for me? I left it by the bunk, just in case. Figured one pf you assholes would need it first.”

“Looks like you were the dumbass all along.”

 _“Hey,”_ she stresses. Daryl catches her wince when she turns in her seat to watch him duck into the back room, coming out with a box in hand. “Somehow it sounds a lot nicer when Glenn calls people that.”

“Shit,” Daryl murmurs, popping the hinges, rifling around for some gauze. “If Glenn came along, he’d send your ass back home. Rather do the dumb shit himself.”

“Hmm, true. He’s been uptight lately, dad to be and all, I guess.” Tara takes the gauze from Daryl’s grasp to hold against the wound. Her eyes squeeze tightly closed at the pressure she adds. “Oh, and all that Negan junk, too. Can’t forget that.”

“No, you definitely can’t.”

It’s Paul that answers her that time, shutting the door with a loud click to announce his presence. He’d probably picked off a few more stragglers out there, assuring their safety for the time being. Daryl doesn’t know for certain, but he’s pretty damn sure that they’d just finished successfully clearing out their first quarter of the safe zone.

“Here--” Paul hands Tara one of his bandannas, but not the one Daryl had given him on the roof. How many did he bring on the trip, anyway? Not that they weren’t coming in handy, but still.

“Thanks.”

The trio falls into a deep silence, a draft blowing in from the windows helping to cool their overheated temperatures. Daryl sits in the passenger seat with his eyes trained out the windshield, Paul leaning against the back of his seat, arm almost draped across Daryl shoulder.

He can tell the position is almost subconscious, Paul’s complete stillness belying his thoughtful state. If Daryl turned to look he’d probably catch the younger man staring blankly out the window, too. But Daryl doesn’t turn and only allows himself to check on Tara through his peripheral, keeping tabs on her wound without making a fuss. He feels a bit better when she reaches for a bandage rather than anything needed for stitches.

“I think it’s good out there, once we’re ready,” Paul finally reports. “A few of them were still moving, but I don’t think they can get up. So if we do another sweep then we should be able to start on the houses.”

“Right. Let’s get back to it.”

When Daryl starts to push up from his seat, Paul’s hand gives him a firm push back into place.

“Daryl,” he says in that careful tone. “I think she needs another minute.”

“Yeah,” Tara agrees. “Just one. Or two. Three, tops.”

It’s probably better they gather themselves and, truthfully, Daryl could use a few of those minutes for himself. They might not have a lot of time to waste, but so long as they have enough to get some essentials from the array of homes in the newly cleared out section, Daryl can go home satisfied.

It's looking like another win and it feels damn good.

* * *

 

Random junk is what they were expecting and random junk is what they get. Well, _junk_  is the relative term; a lot of the items they pick up and toss around were probably once far more expensive than they were truly worth. It doesn’t matter if the pans are some sort of stainless steel, brand name shit, it only matters that they can be used. Same with the big, fluffy blankets. Daryl takes a liking to those.

The painting Paul slips from a hook on the wall isn’t a necessity, but Daryl can’t deny that it’s interesting, something he doesn’t really appreciate but could if given enough time. There’s not much to it, just a bare canvas with a sparse field of colorfully subdued trees. Blue, red, yellow, green, black, brown… Daryl is more interested in the way Paul quietly studies the artwork, his own sharp gaze turning hazy for a moment as he watched the lines of Paul’s expression twitch with thoughts he’d never know, if it was anything like what Daryl felt when he’d looked upon that ocean-scape in Aaron and Eric’s home back at Alexandria, before so much of the place went up in smoke.

Paul dropped the painting with the other items they’d set near the door in preparation for hauling out come morning. Daryl couldn’t imagine where it’d get hung once they got back to the increasingly cluttered trailer, but he knows it'll have a place somewhere. Paul will make sure of it.

The room Daryl ends up at is inside the last house for the night and, judging by all the scattered toys, colorful books, and glowing stickers trapped on the ceiling, it used to belong to a child.

He’s looking for the comics Dante asked for and has been since they started scouring the houses, unable to find even one that looked as if Enid and the other kids might show an interest in. This place is just another bust in that regard, but all the other items of interest they’d gotten their hands on had to make up for it.

There’s a desk in the far corner, covered in markers and half-colored sheets of paper. A laptop is pushed to the side as well, barely peeking out beneath little balls that resemble planets. The bed, in contrast, is printed with butterflies; the pillow, the rumpled comforter, a well-worn toy left abandoned near the chest at the foot of it. The shelf by the door looks untouched despite whatever scramble happened here months and months ago,and all the little covers catch Daryl's eye.

Most of them appear to be about talking animals, probably filled with pictures and simple sentences for little minds to learn. Others are thicker and yet somehow even less interesting, depicting groups of children going through events that didn’t seem feasible in the world even before it changed.

It makes him wonder where they’ll be later down the line, three or five or ten years from now… If all the groups they’ve encountered will have begun to form a new society, thriving in spite of everything trying to tear them down, or if they’ll always come back to pure survival, fighting for a life someone else always seems to want to take away. If Daryl will even be around to see any of it for himself. If Paul will. And if they both are, then what would that mean?

Daryl rolls his shoulders as if that alone will dissipate those thoughts. Luckily it’s the knock against the door frame that really does the trick.

“Tara’s calling it for the night,” Paul says as he steps into the room, moving close enough to stand beside Daryl in front of the rows of books. “I think we should, too.”

“Yeah, I guess. Don’t think there’s anythin’ else we’re gonna find here.”

“Which means another fresh start tomorrow.”

Daryl watches Paul look over the shelf as he’d done, except the younger man reaches for one of books after only a few seconds and holds it not far from his chest. Daryl presses in a little closer, tilting his head to get a look.

_The Tale of Peter Rabbit._

This is familiar, in a sense. Daryl can recall seeing it in libraries when he was younger, probably before Paul was even born, but he’d never read it. Never had the desire to. The crease between Paul’s brows says it’s a little bit of a different story for him.

“S’that special or somethin’?”

“It’s a lighter read tan Sun Tzu, but… yeah.” Paul smiles at Daryl briefly, pressing hair behind his ear and then flipping through the pages slowly. “I used to read it to some of the kids at-- at the home. I did that every night for _months,_ until they finally outgrew it. Sometimes they wanted other stories, but it was this one, for whatever reason, that they couldn’t get tired of.”

“Sounds like hell, man.”

Paul chuckles at Daryl’s oddly sincere sense of empathy, shrugging it off.

“Younger me would agree with you. But I think I’ve blocked it out of my mind since then, like most things from that time.” Instead of putting it back where he got it, Paul pushes it under his arm to hold, maybe even keep despite what he’d just said. Daryl gives him what he’s sure is a funny expression, one that would usually prompt an explanation, but Paul doesn’t follow it this time. Instead, he turns to Daryl and says: “Are we bunking in here? Or should we share with Tara?”

“Here’s fine,” he mumbles.

It feels weird to say even with how long they’ve been sharing a living space back at Hilltop. He’ll chalk it up to everything that had transpired the night before still hitting him at full effect. 

But now he felt stuck again, not knowing what he should do or say, or if he should do or say anything at all. Did they need that? Maybe. But now probably wasn’t the time. They’d have free reign over the whole thing once they got back to home and a better reason to settle things then, too.

Right now, all Daryl needs to do was make sure Paul got some damn rest.

He starts by grabbing the butterfly comforter from the single bed and tossing it beneath the window, piling the sheet, a quilt, and a pillow all on top. There’s a blanket draped across the chest that he snatches as well, shaking it out to drop near the pile of fabrics and bending to fluff the mess into something that could become even the slightest bit more comfortable than the floor.

“One of us could’ve taken the bed,” Paul says after the fact, tone tinged with amusement at the sight of Daryl creating a weird nest right in front of him.

“What, you want it?”

“Not at all.”

“Kay, so c’mon.”

Paul takes action immediately at Daryl’s behest. He drops the book to the blanket so he can shrug off his coat, leaving it on the stripped mattress, and then kicks off his boots while Daryl does the same. There’s not a lot of room on such small, spread out bedding, which packs them in tight beneath the window, pressing against each other once they both start to wiggle into place.

Laying next to Paul like this is a different experience. Daryl’s no stranger to sharing cramped spaces with people he’s come to care for -- hell, he’s no stranger to sharing cramped spaces with Paul himself. The trailer, the shower, the roof the night before. But it’s still always _different._ A new discovery that’s so many different things all at once. He’s calm and yet anxious, the familiarity of such a new position remarkable in its contradiction, so similar to what Daryl has come to know of Paul as a person.

There’s no room for being shy with what they’ve become, with what they have and what they want. Together, as a team and so much more. So Daryl won’t be, can’t afford to hold back when they spend so much time doing shit they shouldn’t come back from to the point that, one of these days, they won’t.

He accepts half of the blanket Paul manages to wrangle atop their bodies, scooting closer to Paul to be able to tuck it near his side. His proximity garners no complaints, but Paul taking hold of that kid’s book again sure starts to create some choice words that end up dying on Daryl’s tongue the moment the pages open for them to see again.

Paul has to hold the book above his head with how he’s lying on his back, tilting it just right to catch some of the dull moonlight slipping through the cracks in the blinds.

“Once upon a time, there were four little Rabbits, and their names were: Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottaintail, and Peter.”

_“Good lord..."_

“They lived with their mother in a sand-bank,” Paul continues, completely ignoring Daryl’s gripe, “underneath the root of a very big fir tree. ‘Now, my dears,’ said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, ‘you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden. Your father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.’”

“What the fuck--” Paul’s burst of laughter cuts Daryl off, stopping him momentarily from reading any further. “It don’t say that.”

“It does. See?”

The younger man allows Daryl to pull the book from him, watching with pure amusement as Daryl squints at the words. He snorts when he sees that Paul had been telling the truth.

“Damn,” he mumbles. He snaps the book closed and in that same breath, adds: “Want some rabbit pie now.”

Paul punches him in the arm.

“Daryl--!”

 _The Tale of Peter Rabbit_  is thrown to the side before Paul can retrieve it, any interest of it wiped from the little ninja’s mind the instant Daryl rolls over to rest atop him, putting nearly all his wait on the torso beneath him.

“Just go to sleep,” he whispers into unusually mussed hair. He can feel Paul’s breath against his neck, resuming what had hitched upon Daryl’s shift into an unusually intimate position. He’s pretty sure they both stop breathing for the first few seconds, and Daryl really only relaxes after he feels Paul’s first exhale, gentle hands finding a home on his lower back without fuss.

The warmth that rushes through him isn’t purely body heat. It’s not embarrassment, either. It’s just what being close to Paul entails, what being with him _means._ The weirdest fucking thing he’s ever felt, but absolutely the best.

“Daryl, hey--”

He pushes himself up onto his elbows to look down at Paul, hair hanging in his face, long enough to sweep against Paul’s cheeks and forehead. Looking at him like this is like a punch to his internal organs, an ache that’s too fierce to be pained, too raw to be superficial. Too good to be an accident.

An arm drapes around the back of his neck, drawing Daryl into a kiss he hadn’t thought to see coming. It’s firm and slow, a tender push and pull, short pecks progressing into lingering caresses that he teeters so yearningly into. He couldn't say how much time passes like this, only that it isn't enough to sate him.

His face nuzzles into Paul’s neck without much thought, an involuntary reaction to the parting of their lips. Paul clears his throat and his voice is feather-light when he speaks.

“It’s all coming back to me now.” A grunt of confusion spurs Paul on. “That book. I bet I could recite it by heart.”

 _“Stop,”_ Daryl orders with an amused huff. He bumps his head into Paul’s jaw feeling the scratch of his beard more prominently than he had when they’d kissed. “Sleep.”

Daryl knows he can only stay in this spot, sprawled out against Paul unflinchingly, settled in the feeling of Paul’s heart thumping from his own chest into Daryl’s to match the beat, for just a few more minutes. He’ll have to move, roll away to his own side so they can both get some rest.

But Daryl stays until Paul’s fast asleep, somehow undisturbed by Daryl’s weight bearing down on him. Maybe even content with it. And It’s not until the haze of sleep threatens to take Daryl under, too, that he finally moves away and settles at Paul’s side for the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating yesterday! I've been so caught up playing Mass Effect: Andromeda this week (Liam<3) that this chapter still had a bit to finish that I finally got to on Friday. So Sunday post it is! Sorry again! I'm also just really nervous about this chapter because it's HUGE, not just in terms of length (which it is again) but in the subject matter. The culmination of the whole story, basically!! And finally the TALK between them. Oh, that talk was hard to do. Phew. I want to go hide now. But I'm really hoping you like it and that them finally knowing what they want from each other was worth the wait. And that the fluff was satisfying! haha. Yay for the kisses, right?? 
> 
> ALSO: the song for this chapter... I cannot recommend it enough. I listened to it when writing the first half. It's beautiful and it fits these two so well, especially in this fic. I think you'll really enjoy it. (Know Me Well -- Roo Panes)
> 
> I hate editing so much. Forgive the errors, please. And thank you so much for all the comments! Every time I see one, I get so excited to see your thoughts. <3 (Now... to start chapter 13. Yikes. We're so close to the end!)


	13. Draw Your Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *comic spoilers in this chapter*
> 
> "I see them snakes come through the ground,  
> they choke me to the bone  
> They tie me to a wooden chair,  
> here are all my songs  
> So come on love, draw your swords  
> Shoot me to the ground  
> You are mine, I am yours  
> Let's not fuck around  
> 'Cause you are the only one  
> 'Cause you are the only one"
> 
> (draw your swords | angus & julia stone)

Daryl never had a problem keeping himself on track. Once he set out to do something, he did his damndest to see it through, no matter the ending. Which is why he had no time to think about anything other than shooting arrows and stabbing blades through ashen flesh as they began their morning with the task of clearing out the second quarter of the abandoned safe-zone. And for _hours,_ the only thing circling Daryl’s mind was getting this shit done before noon arrived so they could have the rest of the day to scour the other homes in this section.

The problem with said scouring was that it was a mindless ordeal. Grabbing tools and candles and pillows allowed his brain to wind down, presenting him with an odd sense of calm that only came around when thoughts of Paul did. And that’s exactly what was happening now.

Waking up next to someone like he had that morning, burrowed in their nest of blankets with their limbs twisted all about, turned out to be a disorienting experience.

Daryl was used to sharing tight spaces with people, but Paul had been wrapped around him like he was a koala hugging a tree, with an arm draped across Daryl’s chest from behind and a thigh slotted between his own. Warm breath fanned across the sticky skin at the back of his neck in slow puffs, the heat of his little ninja’s body overwhelming him before he became aware that it was, indeed, _Paul_  plastered to his back. The instinct to jerk away vanished once that realization hit.

It was fine. Really, really nice, once he relaxed again.

Daryl couldn’t remember what had woken him in the first place. There hadn’t been any creeping aftershocks of a nightmare, no need to get up and take a piss, and the room had still been shrouded in darkness so it wasn't any sudden light casting through the window to coax him awake. He just knew that there was no way he could fall back asleep and instead spent the remaining few hours to sunrise with his eyes closed, his focus on the even breathing coming from the body behind his own.

He’d stayed stock-still until his little ninja began to stir, and only then did Daryl begin to shift and squirm as if the clinging somehow bothered him, still intent on at least _pretending_  he hadn’t turned into a complete sap these last few days.

Paul had groaned into his ear before releasing Daryl, turning over to stretch his stiff limbs. Daryl didn’t copy him, but he did flip around enough to keep an eye on Paul’s movements, to get a side view of those sleepy features contorting with rejuvenation. Beams of gold soak into visible skin, face and neck and collarbone almost shimmering with a dewy glow. Hair a mousy shade in the shadows, a mess of strands spread out across the bunches of cloth beneath them.

But what Daryl remembers most, now, as he sifts through boxes stacked away inside an attic in one of the smaller houses on the street, is the way those eyes looked at him when Paul blinked his gaze into clarity. Because it had hit him so squarely in the chest that this sight was something he would be waking up to a lot, if he was lucky. For now, at least, he _was_.

He remembers the smile that came after the stare -- or during, was more like; the crinkles in his face, the near grimace of his mouth as if embarrassed, and the way it had felt to be the one causing such a reaction. Daryl was still having trouble reconciling the fact that Paul wanted this as much as _he_ did and wasn’t already running for the nearest exit. He still could, might some day, but at least they’d have this. Right here. Wouldn’t trade it, not now that he knows why _it_  could be so important.

His fingernails pick at loose tape keeping the flaps of a box together. With one great tug, he pops the dented thing open, tilting the square to get a better peek inside. It’s dark and he squints as if that’ll help him see better without switching on his flashlight, but after a moment of shaking everything inside he realizes that the contents are merely old toys.

When Daryl shoves it aside to join a plastic container of musty old sweaters he’d already perused and grabs the next box, his memories lead him back to the gut-clenching reminder of the way Paul had kissed him. On the forehead, at first, with his beard scraping lightly across Daryl’s nose when leaned down to place another on his cheek. A soft hand had cupped his scruffy chin, neatly trimmed nails just barely biting into skin, grounding him as if Paul knew the racing of his heart could carry him somewhere far away. And he’d taken Daryl’s bottom lip between his own, gave it a suckle and then a peck, lingering just long enough to have Daryl reaching for more. He was like a twig in Paul’s hands, snapping at the lightest touch, aching for more.

Paul’s hair, cascading through Daryl’s fingers, was more oily than usual, matted but still soft, even with the loose knot near the nape that he wanted to comb through. His heavy hands stopped him from even trying and instead balled into the length, using it as leverage to tug him closer before the younger man could pull away.

The kiss didn’t last much longer after that, neither of them wanting to push too fast with something so new, and so they sat side-by-side with their backs against the wall, just trying to wake themselves up as the air in the room grew stifling. Leaning on each other without a word was just as nice.

The thing that makes Daryl snort with laughter is the image of Paul crawling over towards the bag he’d dropped when he’d entered the room the night before just to retrieve a brush. He’d smirked at Daryl’s disbelief and proceeded to run the bristles through his hair, pulling through the knots and tangles until it resembled something closer to what Daryl was used to seeing. And for reasons he couldn’t fathom, he’d found the whole ordeal sort of fascinating. Maybe it wasn’t the act itself, but the man doing it that had Daryl’s narrow eyes fill with wonder.

The only reason Daryl doesn’t replay that morning in his mind all the way from the beginning once more is because of what he sees inside the next box he grabs.

Some damn comic books. Finally.

The crinkled covers he leafs through reveal wolves and dragons and far too many spandex-clad weirdos. They look a lot like the ones he’s seen Carl and Enid toting around. Dante will probably like them, too. The smile that tugs at his mouth is a little alarming, however, because if things keep going as well as they have been since the end of the war then Rick’s shitty _law of averages_ might not be on their side for much longer.

Daryl hops to his feet with the box tucked under one arm, his bow dangling casually from the other hand. He takes a quick look down the hole and then drops his item to the floor, stomping his feet down the ladder soon after the _thump_ sounds.

Tara and Paul look up from the couch when Daryl enters the main living space. His brows furrow when he passes, plopping his find by the door. Then he retraces his steps and leans just far enough over the back to see what the two are poking at.

An array of board games stare up at him from the table, colorful images and wacky fonts tinted with thin layers of dust interrupted by swipes of a hand. He snorts at the fact that his partners are sitting here, poring over kids games, but decides against making a comment since he’d spent his own time scavenging for comics. What he _does_  do is knock Paul’s head with his knuckles, silently demanding an answer to their piqued interests.

“Monopoly,” Paul says by way of explanation, making an absent gesture towards one of the boxes splayed before them.

“Swapping war stories,” Tara adds, twisting to press her arm on the couch cushion Daryl stands against. “Jesus _might_  have had a worse time with it than me and my sister, but I haven’t told him about playing Trouble with Meghan yet. What about you? Did little Daryl have a favorite game or did you always go out looking for dead things to poke?”

“Shit, never had time for no damn _games_. And I didn’t poke at nothin’. Always used what I shot.”

“You forgot to say _back in my day,”_ she teases, smirking up at him.

Daryl’s gaze shifts to Paul, who tilts enough to present Daryl with a grin of his own, the lines around his mouth made from good humor, before his readdresses Tara with a glare.

“Ain’t that old…” he grumbles.

She laughs.

“So what, you’re all sensitive now that you’ve hooked a cool, young dude?”

“Tara,” Paul warns lowly. His expression never loses those traces of humor, but his eyes are set with something more serious, the imperceptible draw of his brows too tight.

“I’m kidding! He knows I am.” Her boot kicks Paul’s in a little nudge. “We went over this already. I’m happy for you both, yadda yadda. Now, are we gonna play the game you promised or not?”

"Sure,” Paul agrees, a little more pep in his tone this time. He pushes away from the couch to lean forward, pulling the correct box from the pile.

When Tara looks back up at Daryl, her dark eyes expectant, he shakes his head.

“No way.”

“I said I was sorry! Well, maybe not those words specifically, but I am--”

“Nah, it ain’t that,” he intercedes. Daryl jerks his head to Paul, who takes a glance over his shoulder. “S’him. Not playin’ games with him again.”

“I should be saying that about _you_ , Daryl.”

He huffs at that comment, mouth thinning out to refrain from scowling. He’s afraid it might turn into a smile instead, which would turn Paul’s smug grin into a too-sweet one, and Daryl doesn’t need Tara harping over that. It would just add more fuel to the already blazing flames of potential ribbing material.

“I wanna know, but at the same time…”

Daryl shakes his head at Tara, the movement more pronounced when Paul quirks a brow. The younger man laughs at his insistence, obliging the request to not speak of their try at silly card or the checkers that came so long before.

So he puts some distance between himself and the couch to edge towards the door and all the objects beside it. Daryl bends to grab some bags of supplies, nodding towards the door as two sets of eyes take him in.

“Gonna load this stuff up.”

“We’ll help--”

“S’fine. I got it,” Daryl tells Paul before he can move from his spot. “Need somethin’ to do while you play your dumb game.”

“Okay.” Paul jerks his head in a quick nod, running fingers through his hair while staring Daryl down. “But be careful out there. Keep an eye out.”

Daryl raises his bow as an answer to that request, giving it a wave, and then he turns to shove the door open. Darkness immediately drowns his surroundings, blacking out his vision until he adjusts from low light to no light.

Daryl hadn’t realized how much time truly had passed since they’d entered that house, the last one for the night. The candles and flashlights left sporadically around the main drag might have convinced his tired eyes that the sun was still hanging in the sky, but looking up at the blackness now reveals a sliver of a moon set up high.

The breeze hits him full force on the way to the RV, soothing him as he steps over the bodies they’d left in the street early that morning. He listens closely to anything that could be crawling his way, if they hadn’t been thorough enough, and is careful not to keep in one place too long. He doesn’t want to get a chunk taken out, ending up like Merle or Hershel even though they’d both still managed to kick ass after all was said and done. But the back of his mind tells him that Tyreese hadn’t fared so well, keeping that scrap of unease alive. _Fear shrinks the brain,_ Aaron had told him once. And yeah, he’d been talking about some well-meaning assholes still _being_  assholes, but it still applied to every day living. Fear kept you safe, kept you cautious, but it could make you the dumbest son of a bitch, too.

Daryl knows all too well what living in fear is like. Back in Georgia with his dad, pulling dumb stunts with Merle and his biker buddies, getting close to people knowing what pieces of him would tear apart if he lost them… And maybe he got a little reckless with the walkers at times, got too used to the adrenaline and the killing to feel the terror from the start, but he could never underestimate the world they’ve settled in now.

It was stupid that all this was stemming from taking a stroll in the dark with a bunch of corpses all around, but for so long Daryl had so little to lose and now it felt like he had _everything._ He wouldn’t give it up. He won’t. Fear won’t screw with his brain. Not fear of affection, not fear of what people think, not fear of lives being stolen again and again and again.

This is a new beginning, in a new world, and it's his to do whatever he wants with.

Daryl’s mouth twists with a smile as he opens the door to the RV and steps into the stuffy interior.

* * *

 

Daryl didn't spend too long moving their meager finds to the vehicles. He’d taken his time in between trips, kicking at the geeks on the ground to see if they needed another stab, then standing out by some of the trees to tap out a couple of smokes.

But now he’s back in the house, passing by the couch with a prolonged glance, watching the little shifts of Paul and Tara sitting upon the wooden floor, listening to the clatter of dice and bursts of banter. Tara offers to start over so Daryl can join just as he reaches the hall, but he declines again, ready to give rest to his aching muscles and weary bones.

And the baffling introspection from earlier that seems to be rearing its head again.

It’s not necessarily a decision he consciously makes, to take a bed rather than the floor, but the first room his feet brings him to happens to be the master at the far end of the hall and he's not about to leave in search of something else. He kicks his boots off, shrugs out of his vest, drops his weapons into positions only a reach away, and eases himself onto the musty bedding covering the mattress.

Despite his brain’s desire to linger on all things Paul, his thoughts skip back around towards Merle, welcoming the intrusion now that his brother has slipped through the cracks again.

He didn’t like missing him, but _fuck,_ he did. In times like these more than any others -- good times, ones he wishes Merle could be around to see, be around to evolve from the same way everyone else has. He probably always would’ve been an asshole, no question about that, but Daryl could sense a change within him. And maybe if he had stuck around long enough to _see_  Daryl’s role in the group -- to have the hope that if Daryl turned out to be useful and _wanted_ then he would, too -- then they’d have had more time.

But Daryl isn’t fool enough to think it would have been all rainbows and puppies with his brother around. If the Governor had failed in taking Merle from him, then Negan sure as hell would have. Merle probably would have joined him first chance he got, lured by the promise of freedom and power that _Officer Friendly_  could never offer. Not to Merle, not the way he wanted.

Would Merle have come back, if he’d survived? Would Daryl have dragged him all the way home to the prison or Alexandria or wherever the hell else they could have ended up if he refused? _Your people look at me like I’m the devil…_ Was that enough to drive Merle away? That hate and mistrust they were so used to, suddenly working its way beneath his crocodile skin? He’d never been sensitive the way Daryl had been, the way he still was, but he’d shown he’d had a heart on the rare occasion, usually if it involved his little brother in dire situations.

Daryl knows Merle would have chased after him like Glenn, Michonne, and Rosita had. And like Rosita, he would have been open to the idea of killing Dwight. So maybe they would have all ended up in that field, maybe it would have been Merle getting the bat instead of Abraham. Maybe not.

Maybe he would have joined with Negan to try and get Daryl used to the idea, thinking that with the Saviors is where the belonged, not knowing how much better they would have become along the way. Which means Negan would have done away with him eventually, anyway. Because Merle wasn’t fit to be a leader, despite his own thoughts on the matter, and he could only be a good little follower for so long…

But Daryl doesn’t want to think about losing what he’s already lost, of all the scenarios in which he could relive the pain of knowing he’d never see his brother again. He’d been living with that acceptance for so long now, it was creeping through a fog. Eerily harmless, but blinding all the same.

He wants to laugh when he thinks about Merle _actually_  being around at the same time as Paul rushing into their lives. A little guy named Jesus who kicks walkers in the face and steals trucks from strangers on the road. He’d told Paul not so long ago that Merle wouldn’t have liked him much, but that probably wasn’t entirely accurate. If Paul played his smartass card often enough, he’d have ended up on Merle’s good side, so long as it wasn’t him getting sassed. The problem would come with Paul’s immediate attachment to Daryl. Merle would _not_  have liked a little bearded ninja man giving his baby brother the eye and, worse yet, he wouldn’t have liked Daryl returning it with as much fervor as he knows he has and does.

A figure appearing in the doorway halts Daryl’s imagination. He lifts up onto his elbows, squinting across the room to see a silhouette that could only belong to Paul, huffing a breath when he plops back down.

“You lose?”

“No,” Paul answers with a chuckle. “Tara might say otherwise, but we both know how the game ended.”

Paul adds to the sliver of light produced by the moon when he flips on a flashlight and sets it on the nightstand, giving himself a better view of the room and Daryl a better view of him pulling the bandanna Daryl had given him away from his neck. He smooths it over with his thumb, setting it next to the flashlight, then bends to unlace his shoes.

“You do a lotta that when you were a kid? Play games and shit?”

“Uh, probably not as much as a kid should. It was enough, though.” He turns then, the glare of the flashlight allowing them to see each other, but just barely. Paul cocks his head, expression turning pensive due to whatever it is he sees in Daryl’s on face. “What about you? What’d you do?”

 _Nothing_ is his first response. It would be the most true. He hadn’t done anything as a kid, something that carried over all the years afterward, until he’d joined that camp in Atlanta. He’d just sat around or stomped through the mud, played with kids who didn’t completely think he was just trash that needed to be taken out.

But the answer he gives Paul is more than the simple _nothing_  his reflexes insist upon. In the dark, alone with Paul, Daryl can be troubled and honest and know that both make him stronger.

“Just followin’ my brother, if he was ‘round, or my uncle when he wasn’t. Doin’ what they did ‘cause I didn’t know nothin’ else. Didn’t wanna.”

“Is that what’s on your mind?” Paul wonders softly, head still cocked and torso twisted towards Daryl’s body. “Your brother?”

“Yeah. Just wonderin’ how it’d be if he was still…”

Daryl moves his hands from the bed to his chest. He flicks his gaze down to calloused fingers. Paul leans farther across the bed, propping himself up on elbows with his legs still hanging over the side. Daryl’s compulsion to look him in the eye wins out and he’s met with probing pupils that can see through it all; the scars, the pain, the sincerity, the hope, the desire.

When Paul sees the way Daryl returns his look, he smiles, both sunny and soft in all the right ways.

“You said he wouldn’t have liked me, right?”

“Well, ain’t just _you.”_

“Ah. Us?”

That one word gives Daryl’s heart a little squeeze. He ignores it in favor of humming a confirmation, doing his best to keep his eyes locked on Paul’s face. Nothing about it changes, but he does give a half-nod in return, almost as if trying to consider _why_  Daryl’s brother might disapprove, despite the obvious conclusion.

“And it matters to you, what he’d say?”

“No. Tried to stop givin’ a shit a long time ago, when he got with us at the prison. Think he woulda kept changin’, if he’d a had the chance. But I know Merle and I know what he’d say, and I know it wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Yeah? And why not?”

The higher pitch of Paul’s voice belies the smile he’s holding back. He wants Daryl to keep talking, seizing any opportunity to get to know him on every level. And Daryl suspects he wants a little reassurance of their relationship, as well. He rolls his eyes as little at first and then grabs Paul’s arm, lowering it to the mattress so he can get a comfortable hold on that slender wrist, burying the tips of his fingers into Paul’s fist.

“Man, he got over cuttin’ his own hand off, he’d get over everythin’ else.”

“But…?” Paul trails, a clear question in his tone. He pushes at Daryl’s hand enough to twine their fingers when there’s no attempt at answering. “Were you thinking about him for a reason?”

People retake their shapes in his memories, sometimes, as more than ghosts or pieces of moments from a time long gone. Everyone they’ve lost, the weight of some more than others -- Sophia, Dale, Merle, Andrea, Hershel, Beth, Abraham -- never willing to slip into the haze of forgetfulness. Sometimes there’s a reason why they come back to him and sometimes there’s not. But it is always something not so easily shaken off. And that was just like Merle, wasn’t it? Never could get rid of him. He just…

“Just missin’ him.”

He knows he told Paul something like this before, how missing that piece of shit hits him hard once in a while. But the younger man’s touch is the gravity he needs to keep his head from spinning too far out of the present.

“Daryl,” he whispers. His following sigh is laden with uncertainty. “You’re thinking about what he’d say, right? You’re trying to convince yourself that you’d be okay with whatever his reaction would be. And I obviously don’t know Merle, but from what you told me and what I can figure out, I know that he’d be proud of you.”

 _I’m proud of you._ Rick’s words ring inside him instantly. Would Merle feel the same? Had he ever? Paul makes him feel as if there’s no doubt his brother would.

“You’re strong, you have an amazing heart, and you’re just enough of an asshole to be funny--” Daryl squeezing his hand too-tightly in retaliation only makes Paul grin, crinkled eyes and all, for a moment. Then he turns serious again, letting it fester between them. He stretches even closer to continue his thought, staring down into Daryl’s face with his hair curtaining around them. “And regardless of whether or not he’d like every choice you make, I know that he’d still love you… because you still love _him.”_

He did. Then and now, that wouldn’t change. Merle was his brother, even when he wasn’t there, even when he acted like Daryl was some disappointing inconvenience. They’d both had shitty ways of showing they cared. It was a miracle that Daryl could do such a thing _now,_ with Rick and Carol and Paul, with the rest of his family. If Merle was with them, that rift between might have started to mend. And maybe Daryl could have been proud of Merle, too; for more than just his sacrifice.

“Look,” Paul breathes again. “I-- I don’t know if we’d be doing this, if things were different. You say he wouldn’t be able to change your mind, but what if he could? Does it matter? The fact is, you’re looking at me right now and you’re telling me that you _believe_  we’d have this, that we would have fought to get to this point _together,_  no matter what, and that means more to me than any _what-if’s_  going through your head.”

He doesn’t hear anything; not Merle’s voice, not his father’s, not that guiding echo that flops between Carol’s gentle sternness and Rick’s emotional calculation. The only noise that dances around the room is Daryl’s deep exhale.

“You’re gettin’ annoyin’ now.”

“Because I’m right?”

“Hmm.”

“That’s a yes.”

It _is_  a yes, but Daryl won’t say it. He doesn’t need to.

His other arm wraps around the back of Paul’s neck, forcing his arms to bend and put them chest to chest, the tip of his nose feeling cold against the pulse point in Daryl’s throat.

“We’ll come back here,” Paul murmurs into Daryl’s skin. “Make it something.”

He swallows and presses his chin to the top of Paul’s head.

“We will, huh.”

* * *

 

The RV and truck bed are packed to the brim by the time they roll out of the zone, leaving behind the walkers they’d killed and a restructured barricade of vehicles.

Paul makes notes of the more interesting buildings on the way out of the city, marking down whatever he could see around the area, what dangers might stand in their way. Daryl can tell he takes a particular interest in one of the libraries, but he declines Daryl’s offer to make a quick stop, eager to instead get back to Maggie before nightfall just in case she really did decide to send Glenn out looking for them. No one argues with that.

Most of the drive is silent, save for any stray comments made by Tara or Paul, or a grunt from Daryl if he’s asked something directly. The only other sound assaulting his ears is the occasional music track fading in and out.

It’s during one uproarious tune that Tara steps between the two front seats and presses her arms behind both of the headrests.

“It’s ironic,” she says over the noise, pausing just to wait for someone to prompt her for an explanation.

It’s Paul who takes pity on her first and asks: “What’s ironic?”

“This guy’s singing about all the chicks he’s been with, right? And yet, out of the three of us, _I’m_  the only one who can relate.”

Daryl scowls the moment Paul begins to choke on his laughter, not even sparing him a glance when he tries to clear his throat in hopes of swallowing down his giggles. Daryl’s own response is swift and silent, a middle finger held over his shoulder, as close to Tara’s face as he can get. Through the rear-view mirror, he can see her return the gesture with a smile.

They get back into familiar territory when the the sky begins to change from blue and gray to orange and pink, the sun lowering while the dark autumn clouds become wisps that could be swept away by the wind.

Hilltop is still standing, bus walls and all, which isn’t a surprise. Negan's back at Alexandria, hopefully locked up and yelling his voice raw, and whatever Saviors survived are currently under Dwight’s thumb.

But part of Daryl always thinks he’ll come back to trouble, that the whole place will get burned down in his absence and he won’t be able to do a damn thing to stop it. Maybe it stems back to his mom and that trailer, following the smoke on foot while everyone else road their bikes to the spectacle that had once been home, or maybe when he and Merle had circled back to the prison just in time to witness Rick nearly getting his face bitten off.

And although Daryl doesn’t return to flames or hoards of attackers, he knows that something is amiss the moment Sasha disappears from her post up top just after she spots them driving up the muddy pathway.

Daryl cuts the ignition once they’re a handful of feet away from the bus that covers where the gate should be. He shields his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun while someone moves the yellow behemoth just enough to create a gap for entering. Paul and Tara flank Daryl's sides and keep a forward pace with him until Sasha rushes to meet them halfway.

“Is everything okay?” Paul asks immediately. Daryl doesn’t need to look at him to note the worry.

“Right now, yeah,” she answers. “But it wasn’t.”

“What happened?”

Sasha looks to Tara first to acknowledge her question, then switches her firm gaze between Paul and Daryl. Her shoulders slump, but with relief or sadness, Daryl can’t quite tell.

 _“Gregory,”_ Sasha spits with distaste, “tried to poison Maggie.”

Daryl’s body locks into a rigid stance at Sasha’s news. His skin burns with searing anger at the idea of that old fuck trying to do _anything_  to someone he cares about, to someone who’s let him stick around despite having every reason not to. And he’d tried to-- to _kill Maggie?_

Before he knows it, Sasha and Tara are grabbing at him, making sure he doesn’t stomp his way towards Barrington to dig his fists into that cowardly fuck. He shrugs them off too roughly, but they’re strong and don’t let him get more than an inch away from their hold.

“What makes you think we didn’t already kill him?”

“Did you?” Daryl demands.

Sasha’s huff says enough. She answers anyway.

“Maggie told us not to. That’s what she was saying when we carried her over to the medical trailer.”

“Why? I mean, fuck--” Tara breathes. “What happened?”

“Gregory’s not talkin’, but Dante told us what he could remember. He said he went in to give him food, then got hit with something. We saw a broken lamp when we checked it out. Gave him a concussion, too, but Carson said he should be fine.”

“And Maggie?” Paul questions next. He tugs at his gloves almost frantically. “You said he _tried_  to poison her, that she was talking…”

“She’s stable. We spent all day yesterday keeping an eye on her, making her rest and keeping her hydrated. Glenn and Enid are with her, Carson’s monitoring the baby, and Alex should be watching Gregory in the house. That asshole’s still sayin’ he didn’t do nothin’.”

When Tara steps forward, Sasha doesn’t attempt to stop her the way she had with Daryl. He supposes that’s fair. Her sights are on the medical trailer, anyway.

“I’m gonna go see her,” she murmurs. “We, uh, we found a lot of good shit, at least. Maybe that’ll make her happy?”

Even if she had gotten an answer, she doesn’t seem to need one because she turns before anyone let’s out a peep, walking briskly towards the medical trailer on the far right. Instead of watching her go, Daryl turns his attention towards the big house, glaring at the windows as if Gregory could feel his anger all the way from their position in the yard.

“What’re ya gonna do with him? Lock ‘im up like Negan, give us another mouth to feed?”

“Maggie told _us_ not to kill him,” Sasha explains. She shifts on the spot, readjusting her rifle. Her grip on it isn’t as tight as it once was, but she still carries it like an extension of herself. “Doesn’t mean she won’t do it herself.”

“Is that what she’s planning?”

Paul’s question is not worried or surprised. He sounds calm now, almost dangerously so, and it’s enough to recapture Daryl’s attention. His usually full lips are now a taut line of fury masquerading as neutrality, trying with great effort to keep his trademark cool.

“I don’t know. Glenn doesn’t wanna focus on that right now, but I’ve got my eye out.” Her firearm receives an attention-grabbing shake. “And I’m ready. But until she says the word…”

Just like with Rick, no one will do anything against Maggie’s wishes. Not Glenn, not Sasha, not even Daryl. At least, not yet. And also like with Rick, Daryl isn’t sure that Maggie won’t have a cell built to toss Gregory into. He’d witnessed her anger towards the ex-leader, her attempt at shooting him thwarted by Paul and Glenn, but he’d also witnessed her mature and grow, find herself over and over again at every stage of tragedy.

Daryl can’t really guess what she’ll do, so he might as well ask her himself.

“Guess we’ll go see her--”

“I’m gonna talk to Gregory first.”

“Talk, huh,” Daryl drawls.

“Yes. _Talk.”_

Paul’s arms cross over his chest, closing himself off and challenging Daryl in one swoop. Daryl’s response is a snort and then a nod before he turns towards the direction Tara had went in, waiting several feet to glance backward. Sure enough, Paul is closing in on Barrington, strides all purposeful and mounting like a brewing storm. He thinks, for a brief flash of a moment, that he should change course and accompany him to confront Gregory first, but Daryl trusts Paul more than he trusts himself and so he pushes it out of his mind and continues on the path to the trailer.

Daryl’s knuckles rap quickly against the door and he opens it when he hears Glenn’s muffled voice telling him to come in. There’s murmuring that doesn’t stop even as he enters, quiet chatter between Enid and Tara off to the side, both of them standing in the space between Maggie’s bed and Scott’s.

Maggie smiles when Daryl shuffles to stand at the foot of her bed. Glenn tries to offer him one as well, but he looks even more exhausted than his bedridden wife, watching intently the hand that’s held lovingly between his own.

“How was the run?” Maggie questions drowsily.

“Was fine. Figured Tara woulda said so.”

“She did. Mentioned you found some comics for Enid…”

Her head lolling to the side has Daryl looking over in the direction of the two girls, his gaze coming to rest upon the teenager’s suddenly shy smile being directed his way.

“They were just there,” he plays off with a shrug. Maggie’s grin is brightly disbelieving, though she says nothing to contradict his story. So Daryl clears his throat and steps closer to the bed, sidling up beside Glenn’s hunched form. “So what the hell happened?”

 _“Gregory--”_ Glenn spits. He refrains from continuing when Maggie pulls her hand from his hold to touch his face, instantly calming him.

“He tried to poison me,” she says instead. “Coward couldn’t even do that right.”

“I-I was with her when it happened,” Enid offers. “Well, when she fell. We didn’t see him do it. But he put something in her drink before we came in. He was hiding in the closet, too.”

“He tried to run when Enid started yellin’ for help,” Maggie continues, “but I tripped him. Got him on the ground, wouldn’t let him leave. I felt like I might pass out, but I just didn’t. Fought it. I remember Glenn and Alex runnin’ in, them liftin’ me up, and they took me to see Doctor Carson. I’ve been here since. We just wanna make sure it’s all fine.”

Her stomach is still flat beneath her shirt, but the way she presses her fingers against it leaves no doubt that something precious is growing inside, day by day. They’d already been through one scare, just before that nightmare in the clearing, and now they were going through another one, only this time is was thrust upon them by a jealous wacko.

“But what’re you gonna do ‘bout him?

“We haven’t talked about it yet.” Glenn turns to look up at Daryl, fingers combing through his dark hair roughly. “I really don’t want to focus on him right now. I need to make sure Maggie and-- and the baby -- I need to know they’re in the clear. He’ll come after that.”

“I did talk it over with Sasha this mornin’, though.” Daryl’’s attention, as well as Glenn’s, resettles upon Maggie again. “We can’t trust him. We never could, but _now?_  I knew he was dangerous. Now everyone else does, too. Jesus can help me figure things out… Where is he? Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. Went to go see Gregory first. Tried to act like he wasn’t pissed when Sasha told us, but he was.”

“Sounds like you should be checkin’ on him instead,” Maggie jokes. But Daryl knows that her worry is real.

She’s afraid he might do something rash, which wouldn’t usually be like him, but considering his rocky relationship with Gregory and how important Maggie has come to be to him, no one can definitively say what Paul will do. Daryl has an inkling he might just punch Gregory in the mouth the way he’d done with Kal outside the trailers.

“Yeah, I’ll get ‘im,” he mumbles.

He taps Maggie’s foot with the back of his hand, giving a jerk of his head as a goodbye. He turns for the door, pausing after tugging it open due to the extra pair of footsteps he hears from behind.

“I’ll walk out with you,” Enid decides.

He doesn’t say anything in return, just continues forward, allowing her to shut the door to the medical trailer after she exits. But what he does do is keep his pace slow, enough to let her catch up if that’s what she wants, and she does.

Enid fills the silence with her quietly reassured voice.

“Maggie will be okay. She always is. And the baby… I mean, I know I’m just telling myself this and maybe it won’t be true. Anything can happen to anyone. But she’ll get through this, both of them will. Glenn and I will make sure of it.”

Daryl takes a long, side-ways look at her, considering those words. He’s never known much of Enid, only that she never seemed to talk much back at Alexandria and was always heading out when she shouldn’t have been, sometimes with Carl hot on her heels. But then something had happened and she’d started spending more time with Glenn and Maggie, bonding with them in a way Daryl knew all too well, and she’d been different ever since. Maybe even something like what she could have been before, with her own family in her own little world. Daryl would never know and he would never ask. It was just… nice to see.

“It’ll turn out,” he decides to finally say, after several long strides and an even longer stretch of silence. “She knows you’re with her. S’good.”

“Thanks. I’m gonna go get the comics. And thanks for that, too.”

Daryl pauses to watch the girl trudge over towards the line of buses, slipping past Andy and Wes as they go back and forth in their task of slowly unloading all the supplies. He spots Sasha back on guard, leaning against one of the remaining fences with her rifle poised perfectly to view the distance through her scope. It’s a reminder that, no matter what happens, everything else stays in motion; time never ceases, no matter how many obstacles want to freeze it in place.

They just keep going.

When Daryl enters Barrington, he doesn’t have to go far in his search for Paul. The doors to what used to be Gregory’s office are open, revealing the old man himself, sprawled out on the hard floor, and a slump-shouldered Paul hovering to the side of him. No Alex and definitely no talking. Didn’t he know it.

“You kill him?” Daryl asks, almost as casually as an inquiry about the weather might be, if he ever cared for small talk.

Paul’s forehead is severely creased, his nose scrunched and the corners of his mouth turned into a frown. Daryl isn’t sure if he’s offended by the question or perplexed by his own actions.

“No. No, I-- He’s just unconscious.”

“You talk him out cold or what?”

“I guess I had a change of heart.”

“You _guess._ ”

The tip of Daryl’s boot taps Gregory’s arm. He watches it roll back and forth from the pressure. Walking around the other side of Paul, Daryl can see blood smeared against the old man’s mouth, staining his silver beard with red.

“How’s Maggie? I told him if-- if anything happens to her or the baby…”

“She’s pullin’ through. Doc’s keepin’ her to check on things. But she was askin’ for you, wants to talk about Gregory. Needs your help with it.”

Paul doesn’t look at him. He stares down at Gregory with that same expression, his arms hugging his chest, a fist pressed into the thick hair on his chin. He seems lost, which is such a drastic change to how he’d been hours before they pulled up to Hilltop’s front. The days they’d had out there, fighting and searching, burrowing themselves deeper into this new dynamic between themselves, had been _too_  good. Of course they’d have to come back to this. That’s the way it worked; the law of averages.

Daryl's starting to understand that with so many goods came so many bads, and the same had to be true the other way around. But they have to deal with it, one thing at a time.

“I can’t help her,” Paul says so quietly that Daryl almost misses it. “I don’t know what to do with him. Gregory’s always been a coward, but trying to poison a pregnant woman? He’s never killed one of the _dead._ And I’m not sure he’s ever even left Hilltop--”

“’Cept to go be Negan’s bitch,” Daryl reminds him.

Paul heaves a sigh and closes his eyes, knocking his own knuckles against his forehead.

“Except for that, yes. But betraying plans is a hell of a lot different than trying to kill someone because -- _what?_  -- he felt threatened? I should’ve known he’d do something like this. I should’ve seen it.”

“You ain’t the only one with eyes ‘round here, y’know?” Daryl grouses. “Maggie, Glenn, Sasha -- ask ‘em all if they thought somethin’ like this was gonna happen. I sure as hell didn’t. What he does ain’t on you, man. Never was.”

“But I _know_  him,” Paul insists. “If I’d just-- if I could’ve just spoken to him after everything, let him rant and rave like he used to, that could’ve satisfied him. But I didn’t do that. I left first chance I got, went off with you because that’s what _I_ wanted, and now Maggie wants me to help her decide what to do with him? I can’t.”

“Paul.” Daryl closes in on the younger man, keeping just enough space between them so as not to touch. He acknowledges nothing except Paul’s pinched expression and his tense stance. “You bein’ here wouldn’t a stopped shit. Unless you cuff yourself to ‘im, what’re you gonna do? The man made his choices. All of ‘em. Deserves whatever he’s got comin’, same as any of us. And Maggie wants your help decidin’ what that’ll be.”

It takes a minute, but Daryl can see the understanding of his words hitting Paul; his shoulders drop away from his ears, lips straightening out, forehead smoothing, arms falling to his side. And one of those arms reaches out tentatively, reaching to Daryl’s just for a quick touch. To know that he’s there with him. Daryl wants to touch him back, but it feels different, somehow, now that they’re back. They’re alone in this room, discounting the old man out cold on the wooden floor, but they’re home again and… and things are different.

There’s just too much shit going on. Everyone needs a minute to gather their heads.

“Hey,” he says, voice now lowered to a whisper. “You call yourself __Jesus__. Should know what you’re doin’.”

The smile Paul gives him, no matter how small, feels like it’s worth everything.

They drop their gazes to the floor when Gregory starts to twitch, a groan pulling from his throat. Daryl heaves a quick breath through his nostrils and shakes his head.

“Go on,” he tells Paul. “I’ll wait for Alex to come back. Go see Maggie.”

“Alright, but just because I hit him doesn’t mean you should, too.”

“I ain’t gonna.”

“Daryl--”

“I said I--”

“No,” Paul says quickly. “Not that. I just… thank you?”

He decides not to say anything more and leaves before Daryl can even squint his eyes. A second groan from Gregory draws Daryl’s attention away from the door and the spot Paul had been occupying seconds ago.

“What-what the--”

Gregory’s voice cracks and he winces when he touches the bloody spot on his face. When his eyes refocus, taking in Daryl’s towering form, he begins to scramble backwards, clawing at the floor in a frantic bid to get up.

Daryl scoffs.

“Man, just stay the hell down.”

Miraculously, Gregory listens.

* * *

 

Darkness fell hours prior, but Daryl’s still not asleep. He’s had enough rest the last few nights to make him feel wired now, on edge despite there being no threat immediately present.

He’d smoked probably a whole pack on his stomp across the yard, gaze flitting across the walls and the people just to make sure they were still there.

He’d watched Wes take watch from Sasha, watched her pay a visit to Abraham’s grave before making a slow trek over to Barrington. She gave him a nod in passing, which he returned, but they were both too lost in thoughts to exchange any words.

That had been probably forty-five minutes ago and Daryl’s been spread across the steps in front of the trailer since then, sharpening his knife, the one Paul had given him the day he’d been shoved into that hidey-hole in the library. It’s been good to him, something of comfort to replace the one the Saviors had stolen, the one that used to be Beth’s. Old thoughts begin to creep up on him -- _you couldn’t keep her safe, you couldn’t even keep her damn knife safe_  -- but then fades away with the wind that prickles his skin and tangles his greasy hair.

He doesn’t think Paul has left the medical trailer since he’d gone in to speak with Maggie, when he’d left Daryl with Gregory until Alex’s return. It must be some time after 1am by now, beams from a lamp through the window giving him more light than the dull glow from above. It’s just enough to see his blade scrape against the stone, so as not to hurt himself while his main focus is on something farther away.

A creaking noise from some feet away has him looking up and, after several seconds of trying to see through the dark, the shadowy figure coming closer clicks as Paul. Finally.

Daryl removes the soles of his boots from the railing opposite him, straightening out his legs to rest in front of his body. It frees up enough space on the same step for Paul to squeeze into. He takes that spot and they end up hip to hip, their shoulders smashed together almost uncomfortably, but the closeness is something they’d both gotten used to, had come to to like and even rely on.

Daryl is content to sit in this spot and not say a word until sunrise if that’s what Paul needs. Truthfully, Daryl himself doesn’t really _want_  to talk about what’s going to happen next, but he hasn’t tricked himself into thinking he won’t be part of it. So he waits in silence, scraping the tip of his blade against the railing to his right, and stares at anything other than the younger man’s face.

“There are a lot of things we _could_  do,” he says softly, hands in his lap and head tilted downward, mussed hair hiding him from view. “We _could_  keep him here, build a cell like Rick has at Alexandria. Bring him food, assign him a guard, let him live out the rest of his life as a prisoner of the very place he helped create. None of us know how that would work, we don’t even know how well it’ll turn out for Negan, so it seems like a stretch, but we could still try. Then there’s the option of exile. Send him out on his own, risk him coming back with weapons or other people, if he survives long enough. And if not exile, then there’s pawning him off on someone else. But I can’t do that to Ezekiel. I won’t. And Dwight can’t take him… Does he have control of the people at Sanctuary _now?_ Gregory could promise one of the Saviors a way for Negan to escape and then we’d be back to where we started. So if we can’t decide on any of those, then we have two options: let him off with a warning, something Glenn’s not even a fan of, or…or kill him.”

“Spent all the time talkin’ it through and y’all still don’t know?”

“Daryl.” Paul sighs, tilts his head back and brushes the hair away from his face so he can see properly. “Gregory’s an asshole and a coward, and he’s dangerous, but he’s still a human being. I can’t just _decide_ if he lives or dies.”

“S’what we been doin’ all along.”

Paul’s thumb digs into his palm. Daryl watches him from the corner of his eye, his fingers picking at his shirt.

“Glenn talked about a man named Dale,” Paul says after a beat. Daryl freezes. “He talked about a situation that happened back on Maggie’s farm. There was a guy, right? Rick brought him back because he was injured, but couldn’t let him leave because he had a group that might've come looking.”

“That was different,” Daryl mumbles. “That kid? He told me his people raped a couple a girls. Said he didn’t, but still let it happen. Tried talkin’ Carl into lettin him out. Said anythin’ he could to save his own skin, but we never knew if it was true. Maybe he had people, maybe he didn’t, but Gregory? We know what he’s done, what he’s gonna do if _we_ don’t. Glenn knows that. He’s just feelin’ bad ‘cause--”

Daryl can’t bring himself to finish that thought, so he doesn’t. He knows how hard Dale’s death had been on him and how it still probably bothers him, to this day, that he hadn’t stood with Dale inside Hershel’s house the day he died. But these instances aren’t anywhere near the same.

“Maybe,” Paul agrees, as if hearing Daryl’s thoughts as well as his words, “but his point was that, whatever the reason we’re deciding someone’s fate, we’re still _deciding_  it. And it’s never as simple as one conversation.”

“You told Rick you woulda killed Negan.”

“That’s different, too.”

“Why?” Daryl demands, twisting as much as he can in the tight space they fill. “’Cause he did somethin’ to me? ‘Cause you saw him beat a kid’s head in, knew he did the same to Abraham? Don’t matter how he _tries_  to do it, Gregory’s just the same. Or is it ‘cause you know him? S’what you said. You think you owe him for shit he ain’t ever done?”

“What if it was someone in _your_  group?” Paul all but hisses. “What if-- what if someone like Rick did something you couldn’t defend? Whether I like Gregory or not, I’ve been with him since almost the start. Would it really be so easy for you to say _yeah, I’ll shoot him?”_

“That ain’t the same!” Daryl pushes up from his spot, the sudden surge jostling Paul. His shout carries too easily around them. “What the hell has Gregory done for you? Rick--” he starts, but then he quickly shakes that line off, not going down that road now. He’s got something else, instead. Daryl takes a deep breath. “We do shit we don’t wanna. You know that now. S’like Carol, back at the prison. People were gettin’ sick and she didn’t want it spreadin’. So she killed a couple’a ‘em, burned their bodies and wasn’t gonna tell a soul. But Rick found out. He sent her away, and I-- I let it happen. I let it. But she came back, she saved our asses, and what happened while she was gone still sits with her now.”

Before he can stop himself, Daryl digs even deeper, keeping his gaze on Paul’s chest rather than the parting of his lips or tenderness shining in his eyes.

“’Fore that, with Merle… fuckin’ Merle. This guy he’d been hangin’ with, called himself the Governor, he wanted ‘Chonne ‘cause’a what she did to him. And Rick was gonna give her up. Talked to my brother ‘bout it, made up this plan, and Merle was gonna do it ‘cause he knew Rick was too good. I didn’t like it, but if that’s what it took then that’s what we’d do. Thing is, Rick ended up callin’ it off. We knew what was right, ‘cept Merle had already ran off with her.”

“But he didn’t giver her up,” Paul finishes.

Daryl gives a jerky nod. The memory of Merle, the very last one he’d ever have of him alive, stings his eyes. It feels as if thinking about him out of the blue that previous evening was all for this right here.

“No,” he chokes out. “No, he let her go, took his stupid ass back to Woodbury and got himself killed. I was on my way, tryin’-- tryin’ to-- and he… he was tearin’ into this guy, and I saw ‘him but he wasn’t Merle no more.”

He’s furious with himself when the tears start to come, rubbing them away before they can fall from the well inside his eyes. And Paul moves to stand, to comfort Daryl on instinct, but he doesn’t want that right now and his shuffle backwards says just that.

When Daryl speaks again, there’s clarity.

“He made his choice. He did what he did, if it was for me or not. And what Gregory did, that ain’t like Randall. Maybe it’s more Carol or Merle, but why he did it ain’t. We’ve all done fucked up shit, but never to each other. And if Gregory killed Maggie, he’d go for you next, Paul. He ain’t like us ‘cause he don’t wanna be. Point is, we got a choice to make now, too. So if Maggie wants him dead, then I’ll fuckin’ do it myself. I don’t give a shit.”

“Don’t say that,” Paul pleads, finally making that hop to his feet. He closes the distance, very carefully placing his hands upon Daryl’s forearms. “You _do_  give a shit. So much so that it actually bothers you. I know you hate him and right now, I do too. But doing that yourself would weigh on you, Daryl. I know what you did to Simon will, if it hasn’t already. You just pretend like it doesn’t. Because that’s who you are. But you’re not doing this and neither am I.”

“She knows, then?”

“She talked about it.” Suddenly, Paul sounds as exhausted as Daryl feels, both of them like feathers fluttering painstakingly all the way to the ground. “We should hear by morning. And you know, I’m not arguing with you about what he did or how I feel about it. I’m furious. I’m pissed and I’m sad because it’s fucked up every way you look at it. This is me being sick of losing people. With Negan… I knew I’d kill him if it was my decision to make, but it wasn’t. This-- I _do_  have a part in. I don’t wanna be the one deciding who’s life is worth more.”

“I know,” Daryl drawls. Calmness is starting to wash over him once more. His inhale feels like relief. “You can’t be _objective_  now, or whatever. You’re over that. You’re in it.”

“I _know.”_ The hands on Daryl’s forearms slide down to Daryl’s wrist, pausing to feel the pulse there before making it the rest of the way down. Paul’s fingers feel cool as they curl between Daryl’s. “And fine, Maggie’s life is worth more to me, obviously. It just sucks.”

_Yeah, it does._

But Daryl doesn’t say that. He tilts forehead just enough to press his chin against Paul’s head and says, instead, just like Paul had done for him on top of that RV:

“I’m with you.”

Because he is. He always will be.

* * *

 

There’s anxiety in the air that Daryl can feel the moment his body propels him into wakefulness. Or perhaps the anxiety is within him, shadowing his surroundings with an inescapable eeriness.

Paul hadn’t woken him, though he is awake now, Daryl can see. The image is sideways, as he’s curled up on the couch, facing the table and the bed that’s half-obscured by it, but Paul’s upright position allows for a good enough view.

Paul’s hair looks wet, the strands hanging around his face appearing darker than the norm, the air drying them in a curve. The rest of it is tied up tight on his head, revealing ears that stick out and the long line of his neck that so often remains hidden. His back’s pressed against the wall and his legs are propped up, thighs like a desk to hold the book dangling off the side, but it’s not something he’s reading. Daryl can spot the movements of his arm, the tip of a pen moving up to rest against a frown and then down to scratch through his thick beard.

Daryl had never seen him writing in a notebook, or journal or whatever the hell it is, before. But he knows that Paul must do it once in a while, if not often. He'd written a letter to Alex, after all. Maybe it’s something he does when Daryl’s not around, when no one is; a way for him to cope with all that their lives entail. A way to remain as calm as Daryl has known him to be.

Seeing Paul so lost in whatever he’s scribbling is almost enough to make the morning feel a little less uneasy. The urge to smile even hits him before the rest of his emotions dampen it.

The moment Daryl sits up, Paul sets the book to the side. He doesn’t hide it or push it away, merely sets it on the table beside the bed and crosses his legs. The grin he presents Daryl with is sincere despite what he’s dealing with internally.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Daryl yawns and rubs at his eyes. He nods to Paul’s fully-dressed form, the green sweater covering his torso and the dirt-caked boots settled on the bed. “I miss somethin’?”

“I went to see Maggie earlier,” Paul supplies. “She wants everyone to meet up inside Barrington at noon. She’ll, uh, tell us what she decided.”

“Hmm… what time’s it now?”

Paul twists at the hip to grab the plastic little clock on the night table. He squints down at the numbers and then sets it back beside the book and pen, turning back around to look at Daryl. He sighs.

“Eleven forty-three. You missed breakfast.”

“M’not hungry.” It’s a lie, of course. Daryl’s always hungry, he’s just very good at pushing that ache to stand far behind all the others. “You sleep at all?”

“A little,” Paul admits. He untangles his legs and swings them over the mattress, planting his boots firmly atop the floor, but he doesn’t move any further. “I wish you’d think about switching, at least for a few nights. You can’t sleep on a couch forever.”

“I can,” Daryl answers, just to be difficult. And then-- “Forever, huh?”

Even from across the room, Daryl can see the redness in Paul's ears. If it weren’t for that, and the rolling of those big eyes, Daryl wouldn’t know if Paul was even listening. But the younger man does reply.

 _“I want you, too._ Remember?”

Yeah, Daryl does remember. Vividly. Those words said in Paul's voice is not something he’s about to forget anytime, soon or otherwise.

“We should’ve brought back one of the mattresses, at least,” Paul continues while Daryl stands from the couch. “I know it’s not practical, but I’m up for trying to share…”

The ' _yeah right'_ look he shoots to Paul not only makes the younger man chuckle, but serves to mask the sudden shyness he’s afraid might easily be spotted by those eagle eyes. It helps that he disappears into the bathroom to take a leak, too.

He has enough time to wash off, so he steps into the shower to do just that, biting back a smirk when he spots the shampoo he and Paul had talked about in the drugstore. He spends more time using it to cleanse the grime from his hair than he does rinsing the rest of his body.

Daryl redresses in the clothes he’d shucked off as soon as he dries off, having changed them before falling asleep only hours earlier after being in the same outfit for those few days on the road. He’s never had an issue with being covered in dirt and mud, not before and not after, but he can’t deny that there’s something refreshing about being clean. Soothing.

The eeriness of the day, however present it may stay, slips away a little more due to the facade of a fresh start.

Paul’s standing by the door when Daryl exits the bathroom, picking at one of the sleeves of his sweater that he’s pulled down to cover nearly all of his hand. Daryl moves to the couch to grab his vest, gun, and knife, leaving his bow set beneath the window, near the tree painting Paul had found in one of the Leesburg houses. It takes several long seconds for Paul to shake out of a reverie and glance to Daryl’s approaching form.

He’s still shrugging on his vest when he asks, “We goin’?”

With a nod, Paul pushes open the door and turns to go through it. He drops off the step but keeps his hand up, ready to close the door as soon as Daryl follows him out.

Little droplets or rain fall from the sky to splatter against cloth and hair, leaving little damp spots in their wake. Daryl’s hair is already wet, Paul’s still slightly so, and neither of them care about their clothes getting soaked. There’s not enough dripping from the clouds for that, anyway. But they still don’t linger in the frigid air for long.

The colonists pack into Barrington’s dining room similarly to how they’d done before Rick and Ezekiel left to go home, only now there are less people and this incident is only a concern to Hilltop. Daryl thinks Rick might disagree with that last part, he’d very much like to know about an attack on Maggie’s life, but she’s in charge here and he knows she’ll tell the rest of her family when she deems it necessary… Like, say, _after_  they take care of Gregory.

Daryl does not envy her this decision.

Speaking of, he spots her when he and Paul round the corner, at the far end of the room with Glenn and Enid at her sides. Tara’s at the closest table to them, with Brianna and Earl. She waves Daryl and Paul over the moment she catches sight of them near the doorway.

Daryl follows Paul to the front. They weave past people without too much bumping and Daryl straddles the proffered seat beside Tara. Paul continues on, however, striding the rest of the way towards Maggie for a quick check-in. Daryl doesn't want to watch the exchange, so he turns away to look at Tara instead. Or, more accurately, the purple bandage stuck to her temple. After a second, he ignores that, too.

The chatter quiets as food gets passed around, with Paul finally joining them at the table. He scoots close enough to Daryl for people to notice, if they cared to look, but not even Tara makes a comment on the matter. It occurs to Daryl that perhaps Paul _needs_  him right now, especially with the way his leg keeps bouncing beside Daryl’s, jostling him every few seconds by accident. His anxiety is contagious.

Daryl decides to reach out to stop that _bump bump bump bump_  of Paul’s leg. He stills him with a hand to the knee, leaving it there innocuously even with his own uncertainties attempting to pull him back. But it’s easy to remember that this is _Paul_ and that he can do this now; he’d been doing it even before they’d had the talk that decided what they were to each other. So he can do it, but _can_ he do it? He only knows he wants to try.

Paul’s hand drops to Daryl’s atop his thigh when he realizes that Daryl won’t be moving it anytime soon, and doing so prompts Daryl grab at his fingers like he had the one morning, beneath the table with Rick across from them. Their grips slot snugly together.

And when the food is gone and Maggie stands to address her people, that connection between them remains strong.

* * *

 

_“Gregory has to die.”_

Some people protest her decision. They protest their former leader being put to death, protest that their new leader has decided such a thing without a vote, and they protest that it’ll be done in a matter of hours. The arguments get loud and unruly, becoming the perfect opportunity for Paul to step in to play his role of Jesus, one they all know and respect.

It’s a strange thing to watch, to try and reconcile the two personalities that are so different and yet have so much overlap. The man speaking to the roomful of people is not anxious or irresolute. He’s so good at manipulating the crowd, in fact, that for a flicker of a second inside Daryl’s brain he can’t help but wonder if he, too, has fallen under that calm reassurance of righteous fury and reason. But Daryl _knows_  what the truth is. He’s seen Paul and Jesus and the man that’s in between. And Daryl knows at least one of those sides better than possibly anyone alive right now could claim.

 _Jesus_  is as compassionate as ever, but there’s a detachment in the way he discusses the crisis, describing what’s right and wrong. He doesn’t try to convince anyone to take on his or Maggie’s way of thinking, not in the slightest, he just simply lays it all out in an easy way for them to digest. And with all the trust and love they have for Maggie, it _is_  Jesus that they’re still far more familiar with. Therefore, it’s _Jesus_ that eases them into accepting _why_ Gregory has to die and that, one way or another, he _will._

There’s a timer on a man’s life now. Daryl can’t decide on how to feel.

* * *

 

No one cries for Gregory.

_“You can’t do this to me! I built this place. This is my place! My people! You’re going to let this woman, this fraud, murder me in cold blood?”_

He’d shouted those words while being dragged out from Barrington by Alex and Dante, all the way out to the crowd of colonists gathered outside Hilltop’s walls. Gregory had yelled, screamed, begged, cursed… A barrage of emotions pelted at all those who watched, his last ditch effort to pull someone to his side.

_“Harlan, please. I-- I don’t know how those pills, where they came from-- They were in my room! You gave them to me months ago! Maggie’s lying. She wanted this place from the start. Harlan, please-- Jesus! Jesus! How can you prove I did this? How can anyone? You know me, Jesus… We may have had our disagreements, but I’m not a murderer! I would never try to kill a pregnant lady.”_

His groveling, though hard to watch, convinced no one. It could have, Daryl knows that much. He had to clamp down on his tongue when he felt his own heart fall deceitfully. But the people were too wise for Gregory’s tricks these days. Hilltop had flourished under Maggie, became a lively existence rather than a place that could barely scrape by day-to-day. She cares, she fights, she builds; all in ways that Gregory never had and never would.

And he’d tried to take it away out of jealousy.

 _“Stop,”_ Maggie had demanded, as cool and calm she’d ever been. A mirror of Jesus.  _“It’s over. No more beggin’, no more lyin’. You tried to kill me. You tried to kill all of us. You’re not a leader and you’re not a man, but you_ are _a coward and you don’t know when to quit. This is your punishment.”_

She’d gestured to the large tree hanging above them, the bare branches looking like claws all spread out and ready to take hold. Earl had tied a rope to one of those branches, looped a noose at the other end. Beneath it sat a stack of old crates, casting a shadow that seemed to long for the current time of day.

_“Jesus, you can stop this.”_

_“I won’t. Gregory, you’re a danger to everyone here. You made that choice. Now, we’re choosing to protect ourselves._ That’s _what this is.”_

And Daryl had seen the look on Gregory’s face. The hatred, the realization of the fact that he wouldn’t be talking himself out of this problem. There were no more deals to make.

 _“One day…”_ Gregory croaked, _“they’ll turn against you, too. Maggie, Sasha, that--”_ a gesture to Daryl, then, to where he stood off in the broken up shade of the barren tree, _“--him, Daryl. They’ll all turn against you. You’re not one of them! And when that day comes, you’ll get what you deserve.”_

Paul had stood with his head raised and his arms crossed, showing no outward sign that those words touched him in any way. His reply was simple and biting.

_“I’m not afraid.”_

They’d all watched Alex pull Gregory onto the crates, watched Earl tie the noose around his neck, watched Dante kick him into suspension. Daryl looked away at the start, just once, to check Paul’s expression. The younger man threw his gaze away reflexively, his eyelids slamming shut and arms tightening around his torso. But whatever went on inside his head forced him to watch the former leader meet his end, to burn it inside his brain the same way he had with that photo from the dead woman’s hand.

Because of that, Daryl watched the execution, too.

The old man struggled until he no longer could, choking and clawing while everyone watched in horror. A deathly silence settled over the field while the body swungs like a heavy pendulum. Lifeless.

No one cries for Gregory.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit,” Maggie tells her group softly. Then she inches towards Paul with her arms held tentatively out. He embraces her without hesitation.

She pulls back with a kiss to his cheek, grabbing Glenn’s hand for the support she needs when she calls out:

“Cut him down, please.”

Daryl is the first to react.

He piles the crates up once more to step onto them like a ladder. His knife is pulled from its sheath, the blade cutting through the rope held taut in Daryl’s left hand with a sawing motion. Alex is there to grab Gregory’s body when it falls and he’s the one to drive his own blade through the balding head, stopping the brain from reanimating.

“Do we… burn him?” the blond man asks reluctantly, glancing at Wes briefly before deferring to Maggie. In turn, she defers to Paul, who swallows hard and scratches at his beard.

“I’ll bury him.”

“Wes and I can help--”

“It’s fine,” Paul persists. “I’ll do it.”

“Whatever you say, Jesus. Can I at least bring you a shovel?”

Daryl doesn’t mention that he’d left a couple out by the graves, even if that’s what his urge tells him to do. Alex had known Gregory just as long. It’s not Daryl’s place to cut in. So he doesn't say a word.

Maggie’s retreat is a signal for everyone else to go about their day, doing whatever they need to do in order to cope with what they’d just witnessed; the _show_ of what happens when you betray your community and family. No one else would make that mistake again.

Daryl drops to the dirt rather than head off in any specific direction. He presses his back to the hard trunk of the tree Gregory had been hanging from, looking out at the dirt and grass and feet that walk along the way, becoming smaller and smaller the closer they get to the walls. He watches Paul kick at Gregory’s legs to spread them, watches him turn and bend to grab beneath knees. The younger man adjusts his grip on the limp limbs and starts to drag Gregory deeper into the woods.

It’s when he disappears that Alex and Wes leave, too. They spare a glance to Daryl’s hunched figure as they go, Alex offering him an awkward smile that resembles a grimace. Daryl looks down at his hands.

Deep lines, blue veins, circular scars. The shower had rinsed away any residual dirt and blood, leaving behind skin that’s still too dark to look clean. More bruised than tanned, overworked and ragged. His too-short and torn nails are black around the cuticles, hold shadows beneath the beds, giving him a fleeting sense of familiarity that doesn’t hurt the way the burns do, just by seeing them there.

His vision travels up his wrists, to his bare forearms, to the expanse of mostly unmarred skin there as well. The marker drawings Paul had spent so much time on are gone. It’s stupid that he misses it, especially now.

It starts to sprinkle again after a while and the tree barely does anything to protect him from the light downpour. Daryl tilts his head towards the sky, breathing in the smell of dampening earth, embracing its wistful comfort.

But what pulls Daryl from his moment of peace is the lack of Alex, oddly enough, as he still hasn’t returned to give Paul the shovel he doesn’t need. Maybe the younger man had told him not to bother while Daryl tuned them out, thinking he'd make due on his own.

That should be enough encouragement for Daryl to go back to the trailer and wait for Paul to resurface, but he can’t shake wanting to just check on him. Hell, Paul had never been shy about making sure Daryl was alright on any previous occasions… Daryl won’t be, either. They've earned that luxury.

Rain picks up hard while Daryl ambles through the thick line of trees. He keeps a look out for anything stumbling around, gripping the hilt of his knife without pulling it from the sheath, ready for action. Nothing jumps out at him, no walkers or Saviors or weirdos trying to steal his shit. There's nothing, only the wooden crosses come into view after a couple of minutes of stepping over roots, followed by Paul’s head. The younger man digs into clumps of grass and dirt with one of the shovels Daryl knew he left behind. The other one still hides between the mounds of settling soil.

_Tunk. Tunk, tunk._

Paul’s shirt is drenched with sweat and the persisting rain. His pants up to the knees are soiled by mud. Most of the hair that’d been pinned up now cascades around his shoulders in darkened waves. Gregory’s body lies only a handful of feet away from the hole Paul sinks all his energy into creating.

Without saying a word, Daryl grabs the spare shovel and treads forward, allowing the younger man to hear his footsteps.

Their eyes meet and Paul looks at Daryl like he knew he’d come for him, like he’s glad that Daryl _did._  His little ninja can do this on his own… but he should know that he doesn’t have to. He won't ever again.

Daryl bows his chin to his chest; recognition, affirmation, deference. He’ll leave if Paul asks him to, stay if that’s what he wants, watch from afar if it’s what he needs. Or he’ll help. They can do this together. As a team, since they're so damn good at being one.

_I’m with you._

It’s a gut feeling that those words echo in Paul’s head the same time they do in Daryl’s. And when he nods, _only_  when he nods, does Daryl move.

For now, his shoulders don’t burn.

* * *

 

They split ways once they’re back inside Hilltop. Paul heads straight towards the trailer, presumably to change now that the rain has stopped, just as night begins to fall. Daryl makes a beeline for a trailer, too, but not the one they share.

He knocks before peeking inside, giving anyone in the little infirmary time to prepare for his entrance. He’s not surprised by the emptiness of the bed Maggie had been lying in.

“Oh, Daryl,” Carson greets in surprise. “Glenn took Maggie back to Barrington, despite my suggestion. I can’t blame him, though. She’s a hard woman to bargain with.” When Daryl offers a snort of amusement, the doctor smiles. “Do you need me to look you over? Don’t think I ever got the chance, after Negan… How’s your shoulder? Your leg? You found a lot of meds on that run, so if you need some aspirin, feel free to ask.”

“Nah, m’good. Just checkin’ in.”

“Alright.”

Carson fidgets with items on the counter, opening drawers to put bottles and gauze away. He moves a little notebook beside an asleep Scott’s bedside, along with a pen, and then comes to meet Daryl by the door before he leaves completely.

“Hey, uh…” the doctor whispers. His cough is uncomfortable. “How’s, um, how’s Jesus holding up? None of us had a… _great_ relationship with Gregory -- especially not Jesus, from what I gathered -- but, uh, he was… he was definitely the closest to him. Dealt with him the most, even ahead of me. And I’m sure he’ll be fine, but I just wanted to check.”

“And you ain’t askin’ him ‘cause…?”

Harlan laughs, just a little. A breathy chuckle. His hands go to his hips as he shrugs.

“Because you’re more likely to tell me the truth. About him, at least. And vice versa.”

Well, Daryl couldn’t deny that. To an extent. If something was hurting Paul, of course Daryl would let the doctor know, maybe even Alex it were serious. When it came to himself? Not so much, but Paul absolutely would. Carson sees through them far too well.

“He’s a touch lil shit,” Daryl states. “He'll pull through anythin’.”

“I know. And I know you’ll make sure of that.”

Carson claps Daryl on the right shoulder with very little pressure, pulling his hand away after maybe a second of contact.

It reminds Daryl that, yeah, people are more comfortable with him after all the fighting, but they still don’t know him the way Rick or Carol or Glenn do; the way Paul does. Even with how much time Daryl spent in the medical trailer after first arriving at Hilltop, Carson knows very little. And yet, there's trust there, under the awkwardness. It's like those days at the prison when things had been good and Daryl couldn't get people to leave him alone. He might appreciate that a little more now than he did back then.

The doctor sighs.

“Well, have a good night, Daryl. I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Daryl waves halfheartedly at the shorter man. He backs out of the trailer and barely makes it five steps when another voice rings out to him.

“Hey, Dixon!”

Tara, still with that purple bandage on her temple -- which seems to almost glow in the dusk -- grins brightly upon approach. Two bags hang off both her shoulders. He eyes them questioningly.

“Goin’ somewhere?”

“Yep. Back to Alexandria, heigh-ho.”

“Maggie’s lettin’ you off by yourself?”

“Not so much. Dante’s coming with.” Tara gestures vaguely towards Barrington, shrugging one of the bags farther up her shoulder. “He’s too ashamed to show his face around right now, apparently. But don’t worry, Rosita and I will whip him back into shape. Well, mostly me. And by whip I mean encourage him with words and maybe a little shoving. My specialties.”

“Uh huh.”

Tara had told him before they’d left for the trip that Alexandria would be her next stop, but Daryl hadn’t really figured she’d be leaving already, what with all the crazy shit they’d witnessed in the last several hours barely coming to a close. He imagines Maggie encouraged her to go home, though. To check on Rick and Michonne and all the others now that Negan’s under one of their roofs. Plus, Rosita had asked her to hurry back, the real motive behind it all.

“I know you won’t miss me too much,” she continues, a little softer than the start. “And you and Jesus should be stopping by in a few days, right? Tell him I want a rematch! I can’t prove shit but I’m about eighty percent positive he was stealing money out of the fucking box whenever I looked away.”

Shit, that definitely sounds like Paul. He knew the little ninja was a cheat. It's something that gets Daryl smirking.

“So don’t look away.”

“Easier said than done. Ass. _Anyway_ , I just have to say bye to Carson and Sasha, then I’ll be back on the road. Jesus said I could borrow some of his music.”

“Careful out there,” Daryl murmurs as soon as Tara yanks him into her tight embrace. He wraps his arms around her easily, rubbing whatever part of her back he can reach with the bulk of the bags in the way. “Shoot Dwight if you see ‘im.”

Tara manages a little chuckle at that half-joke. She knows how conflicted Daryl feels about that idiot. Tara feels the same. Probably worse. Somehow, she manages to keep it under wraps.

“Will do.”

She slaps Daryl on the back and steps away to readjust the straps of her bags for a final time. Holding her fist out for Daryl to bump, he does so without a second thought.

“Oh--” she adds suddenly, just as she starts on for the post Sasha sits upon. “If you’re looking for Jesus, I saw him going upstairs”

Huh… he thought he would notice Paul leaving the trailer, since he hadn’t gone fully into Carson’s place. But Paul’s stealth abilities were almost as good as Daryl’s -- okay, maybe even on par with his own -- so if he didn’t want to be seen then it would be easy to go unnoticed. He hadn’t seemed to have a problem with Tara spotting him, though...

Daryl starts to backtrack rather than enter the big house, but he turns after just a few long steps away, hesitating to move any further when something catches his eye.

Paul, up on the balcony, sitting precariously atop the railing whilst looking out beyond the grounds.

A few seconds of observation produces a stupidly appealing idea inside the part of Daryl that doesn’t want to hide away for the rest of the night, even as he's too afraid of overstepping when he might not be wanted.

But this… this’ll be for the both of them.

* * *

 

The room that leads to the balcony is surprisingly free of anyone, absolving Daryl from any potential embarrassment of having to move past them in order to meet Paul on the other side. The place is empty and nearly pitch black, the dusty windows offering barely any light to lead the way.

Wooden floors creak beneath his slow steps, his knee bumping into a chair he’d forgotten was there, causing it to scrape across the floor gratingly. Daryl had only been here once before, when Paul showed him through just before that kiss. He’d been able to see all the old furniture then, the mixing and matching of pieces brought in far later on cluttering the space. And the mirror-- He’s glad it’s too dark to see his own reflection.

Daryl’s fingers tighten around the neck of a bottle held in his left hand. The black marker in his right taps against his hip. Through the glass, with the curtains tied back, he can see Paul still perched atop the railing with his back against a pillar and one boot planted firmly on the ground.

The door doesn’t make a sound when he opens it, but Paul turns to look anyway, sharp eyes flitting from Daryl’s face to his hands. One brow shoots up curiously at what exactly Daryl’s holding.

“Scotch,” Paul intones. He tilts his head. “Is that Gregory’s?”

“Not anymore.” Daryl shakes the bottle enticingly. “Found it in a closet. Gonna get shit-faced drunk.”

Paul laughs and the sound warms Daryl’s skin better than the sun could.

“You are?”

 _“We_  are.”

“We…” Paul murmurs. His lips quirk into a smile. “That sounds like a really bad idea, but also like a really  _good_ one.” Daryl hums in agreement, so Paul turns his attention to the second object being presented to him. “What’s the marker for?”

Daryl doesn’t offer Paul an answers, but he _does_ offer him the scotch. The younger man stares for a moment, then slides from the banister to rise to his feet. He takes the bottle from Daryl and turns it over in his hands for inspection.

The cap he spins from the top lands with a clatter, and the rim of the bottle slips past Paul’s lips for a brief taste. His fingers touch Daryl’s, slipping the marker slowly from his grasp, his head tilted back and face screwing up into a wince while he swallows. Daryl reclaims the alcohol on his step closer.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, barely a whisper alongside the gentle breeze. Paul follows him immediately.

The world rolls on behind their backs as they settle against the rungs of the railing, palms pressing into the wet leaves plastered beneath their feet. Paul passes the bottle back to Daryl and it’s his turn to take a sip. Or a gulp. Maybe two. He holds it out for Paul’s taking once more, but instead of withdrawing his arm, he drops it to the younger man’s lap. There’s no sleeve covering his forearm, baring it like he had in the RV.

Paul takes his mouthful, setting the scotch in the small gap between their knees when he's had enough for the minute. He reaches for Daryl’s arm in an instant.

Cold, nimble fingers caress Daryl’s skin, nails scraping through fine hair. A thumb brushes the veins in his wrist and travels up to the lines of his palm, tracing each one like he can memorize them by touch alone. Daryl thinks his little ninja probably could.

Every stroke creates a line of ink. A circle. A triangle. Squiggles of black taking shape across the designated expanse, a battered canvas that can come clean and be used again and again for whatever Paul desires.

The lightness of the action tickles, has Daryl balling his hand into a fist because of how exposed he suddenly feels, even just like this. Some kind of intimacy he isn’t used to but knows he wouldn’t ever walk away from.

Paul’s concentration for his task at hand remains steadfast even as Daryl sweeps waves of hair away from his face, looping it behind an ear. He snatches up the bottle for another swig, eyes never leaving Paul’s face, not even to flinch at the biting drag inside his throat.

But when Paul does look up during his move to take the scotch from Daryl, the intensity of Daryl’s stare has him stopping altogether. Searching his little ninja's face has his heart picking up pace.

“You regret it?”

Paul lets the pen drop to his lap when he hears the question, but he never releases Daryl’s arm. It takes him only seconds to answer with confidence.

“I regret it ever being a choice we had to make,” he says with a sigh, “but not that we made it. We did what we thought was right. Time will only tell if it was.”

“Cross your fingers, right?”

It’s something Paul had said when Daryl had been wallowing in the shower. He’d wanted to know if the war was really over, if ever could be with Negan alive, but Paul had no answers. All he could say was that he wished he did.

_I wish I could tell you forever. Cross your fingers._

And now he’s the one telling Paul that they could at least hope for the best, even when they have no fucking clue about what’s yet to come. Then again, Daryl guesses he never really did. He's been winging it this whole time.

He's been doing alright so far, at least. And those repeated words make Paul smile.

It starts slow, a twitch of lips above a thick beard, the corners of them turning up. But then it continues to spread, making his full lips thin out over white teeth when they begin to show. His eyes -- with irises of marbled blue, flecks of green and gray and what Daryl thinks is a little bit of brown, just like honey -- crinkle at the edges, that upturned nose scrunching just as tight. It’s beautiful, that smile, and Daryl won’t bother trying to question how he’s come to deserve it.

Daryl looks down to Paul hands when he senses movements. He blinks, studying the way one finger crosses the other. Just as he'd said. Now, it’s his turn to smile. His is nowhere near as bright, of course. There’s no stretching and no teeth, but Paul can see that tiny lift for what it is and that’s what really counts. They both feel it all the same.

Eyelids flutter when a hand clasps the back of is neck, tugging at wisps of hair. It cradles his head, uses that hold as leverage to draw Daryl closer, bringing his face to Paul’s. That ghost of a breath steal’s Daryl’s before their mouths even meet. When they do, the knots in his stomach tighten and slither up to his chest, slipping through his ribs to encircle his heart. Not ceasing; beating harder, with strength and a purpose. 

Daryl sinks his grip into Paul’s soft waves and feels dampness still at the scalp. The sweet slide of their kiss extends one, two, three, four beats longer. Not enough for later, but just enough for _now_. For this moment.

He takes a deep, steadying breath when they part from their firm press of affection. The strange lines of the doodle pulls Daryl's attention away from the distracting sight of Paul's red mouth still so close.

“What’s that s’posed to be?”

His head nods down towards the arm still in Paul’s clutches. His voice sounds too rough to be normal, but he doesn’t clear his throat.

That mischievous glint in Paul’s eyes does not go unnoticed.

“A chupacabra.”

Paul goes back to drawing just as Daryl rolls his eyes. Of _course_ it would be, even if it looks more like a happy little dog than a blood sucking beast. Daryl definitely doesn’t say that, though he knows Paul would probably laugh.

Daryl snorts instead.

“Prick,” he utters.

The heat of the word is undermined by the tenderness of which brushes those strands away from Paul’s face for a second time. Paul resists looking up, but Daryl can see a smirk forming. He doesn't imagine the way Paul's face tilts enough to press against Daryl's lingering knuckles, either.

And just like that, Daryl knows it’ll be okay. That they’ll make it, for a few days or months or years. They’ll make it because they already have. There's a whole new world for them to explore.

Daryl takes hold of the bottle, weighing the scotch in hand, his lids drooping over stormy eyes. He puts the rim up to his mouth and takes a long drink. The only thing he thinks about is Paul’s touch.

* * *

 

_“You ever think about it? Settling down?”_

Daryl does. And for now, shit _is_  settled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *in the comics, gregory poisons maggie around the time the whisperers show up. jesus is present when this happens. the two decide gregory can't live and they hang him in front of the community. in this fic, gregory poisons maggie way before the whisperers are introduced, just after negan is locked up, and jesus is not present to witness it as he's on the run with daryl and tara. jesus still agrees, however, that gregory needs to die, although he's more conflicted about it in this fic than he is in the comics.*
> 
> WOW, I'm soooo sorry for how long this took. Several things had come up (like my phone completely dying, resulting in me losing everything -- all my pet pics, my notes, saved texts, etc -- and I had to get a new phone. It still makes me cry. Also, I've just been really stuck on typing even though I know the outline of the chapter already. So yeah, I'm sorry for the long wait. I don't know if the chapter is worth it, but I hope so! This chapter incorporates comic spoilers, as stated above, with the whole "Gregory poisoning Maggie and being killed for it" thing. 
> 
> I can't believe there's only one chapter left! I've spent 7 months writing this fic and it's finally almost over, I just... I don't even know. Everyone reading and commenting and leaving kudos has made me so happy. I have ideas for a sequel, ideas for a modern/non-apocalypse au, but I'm not sure what any of you will want to see next. But for now, I hope you enjoy this chapter (of course i'm not entirely happy with it, but that's the way it goes) and I'm sorry for the long wait. I can't say when the final chapter will be uploaded, but I will start working on it soon. Thank you for the patience, for all the kind comments I received last chapter (so much amazing feedback, it's incredible), and for sticking with this fic. :) I hope to read your thoughts again! And sorry for any mistakes.


	14. Howling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "golden siren, under exposing  
> come lay your weakness down  
> on the floor in the backseat  
> gold, I swam into your spell  
> on the rite of God we fell  
> you were plush and I laid bare  
> you had me howling  
> cold, I fell into your skin  
> on the night you held me under your sin  
> you had me howling  
> you had me howling  
> blush"
> 
> (howling | ry x)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*sexual content in this chapter*_
> 
> [Epilogue]

His knuckles are bruised, his shoulders ache, the callouses on his palms rubbed raw from hours worth of work too many days in a row. He’s got a splinter stuck inside the tip of his finger and it’ll be a bitch to get out with his own tiredly clumsy hands. But at least those damn stables are finished.

They’d worked on rebuilding the walls of Hilltop first, of course. The start of many projects Maggie had in mind. The colonists had spent those first initial weeks after Negan’s incarceration on scavenging missions, searching for lumber and steel and any other mechanisms that could recreate the pulley system they wanted to use for a new gate.

It had been Paul and Daryl himself leading the hunt for supplies, heading out for days at a time just to come back with scraps. But those scraps did add up to something in the end, so all the trips had been worth the tedium. And once they’d gotten most of what they’d needed, Paul and Daryl settled in.

The little ninja hadn’t been big on the labor side of things, sticking instead to coming out out in place of Maggie to oversee the slow process of replacing the rusting buses with thick trunks of wood that would hold up as well as the rest of Hilltop’s barrier. Which meant that while Paul oversaw the process, Daryl buried himself up to his elbows in mud and dust.

Building had never really been Daryl’s forte, not that he’d ever tried much. Though, despite what most who knew him claimed, he’d always had a knack for fixing things-- second only to breaking them. Luckily for him, and all the others trying to follow a lead he didn’t want to hold, they only had four panels and a gate to reconstruct.

The stables came after and were far, far worse.

Paul had gotten around to doing what Rick had asked, even amidst all the other duties he’d had piling up. So when the duo made their first trip to the Kingdom post-war, Daryl stuck by Carol near Shiva’s cage and Paul went off on a walk with the _King_  and his guards. It hadn’t been easy, Paul claimed -- to be dramatic or honest, Daryl still can’t tell -- but he’d managed to sway Ezekiel into giving them the horses they desired. By the end of the week, Alexandria and Hilltop had a dozen new mouths to feed between them.

Admittedly, Maggie’s order for six new stables was both logical and predictable, but Daryl still didn’t have to like it. And he made that feeling known with constant scowls and grumbling. Sadly, no one was as put off as they were when Daryl first started stomping around the community. Paul laughing at his indignation only served to irritate him further.

But perhaps what he’d _really_ hated was the fact that he was too stubborn to give up building those damn horse houses even after he’d sprained a wrist, courtesy of his favorite little shit. There’d been a staircase, a mattress, and a guy with burning ears who hopped over a banister to check on Daryl seconds after he’d knocked him off balance.

Maggie’s giggly insistence that Daryl take it easy in his and Paul’s _new bed_  made him want to work overtime… which, now that he thought about it, might have been her goal in the first place. She loved those animals too damn much.

But it’s done now; the walls, the stalls, Daryl’s exasperation. Next on the agenda are the the carports Glenn thinks is a great idea, simple overhangs to provide at least a little shelter for the vehicles they use often enough; the truck, Daryl’s bike, Paul’s shitty corolla, a Buick the colonists ran ragged that Daryl only just managed to start up again, the RV whenever Alexandria wasn’t in need of it… But all Daryl wants to even _think_  of in this moment is getting cleaned up and going to bed. Then maybe in a few days he’ll be ready for trip to Alexandria, catch up with Rick and see how far along their own rebuilding efforts have come. It’s been nearly four months into this _new_  new world, by Paul’s sketchy count, so he figures they’ve had a better go of things than the last time Daryl was there, some three, maybe even four weeks prior. Plus, Aaron just might have some new scrap for him now.

But that’s all secondary, so Daryl pushes it from his mind and focuses on throwing all the stray tools into a crate at the back of the nearest stable. The others that had been helping mill about, doing away with their own hammers and saws, chatting quietly or taking sips from lukewarm canteens. There can’t be more than a month left of winter, being at the tail-end of it here and now. As far as weather goes, frigid air and icy roads are the most of their worries.

Cooling sweat has his skin feeling clammy and his increased intake of oxygen makes his mouth all parched. Biting at his finger doesn’t help pull the sliver out, could even shove it deeper into the crevices of his overworked skin, but he keeps at it anyway and manages to at least tear away a hangnail without too much sting.

Daryl grunts at some of the well-wishers as he passes, accepting a pat on the back from Earl with more of a smile than a scowl. But he doesn’t stick around for anything more.

The gates creak loudly when Sasha and Dante pull them open to allow Daryl entrance. They smile at him as he passes through, stepping into Hilltop’s busy yard with a hand shielding his eyes from the bright rays of an evening sun. Nighttime will bring the usual temperature drop, turning his breath as visible as cigarette smoke, but he doesn’t plan on exiting the trailer until morning. Or so he hopes. Even now, a restful sleep his hard to achieve routinely.

Daryl’s teeth clamp down on his bottom lip as he drags his feet towards the only trailer he’s ever _liked_  calling home.

And that’s what it really feels like, especially after four months of planting roots the way he’d wanted to at the prison, the way he never really could in Alexandria. He and Paul live in each others holey, lint ridden pockets and Daryl doesn’t even mind. They share everything -- including a bed every night, which wouldn’t be worth dwelling on if the sudden switch hadn’t left him feeling things he’d always thought he’d been lucky not to care about.

It was all Paul’s fault. Every bit of it. Because Daryl didn’t mind the cuddling, for warmth or otherwise, and he’d made that fairly clear right away, a surprise to his own stern sensibilities. But Paul _always_  found an opportunity to screw with his head, doing or saying shit that made Daryl think something might happen and that he’d be okay if it __did__ , and then acting like the switch that flipped on when everything got dark was just normal affection.

Daryl isn’t dumb and Paul can’t always control _everything._

He’d had to leave the trailer a few times, get some fresh air to clear his head, hoping to ease what was becoming a chronic ache somewhere deeper than the pit of his stomach. The one time Paul asked, just days prior, Daryl’s answer had simply been: _restless._ He thinks Paul believed his excuse. Maybe.

Daryl runs his dusty hands over his face, probably adding to the streaks of mud he’s sure are staining his cheeks. The shaggy hair hanging in front of his eyes is damp with sweat and in desperate need of a trim. He sighs.

Brianna slips by him with her son, a basket of laundry in hand. She smiles at Daryl while her kid offers him a wave, which he returns. Then--

“Daryl!”

He knows it’s Paul by voice alone, but spins around towards Barrington to get visual confirmation.

The younger man bounds down the steps of the big house, pushing into a jog to meet Daryl halfway. He’s got the sleeves of his faded red sweater pushed up to his elbows and his hair hangs long and straight around his shoulders. Daryl only spots one knife on him, sheathed at  a thigh. He appears to be in high spirits, just as he had that morning, but Daryl inquires about the state of things inside the house anyway.

“You been with Maggie?”

“I have,” Paul answers once he gets close enough not to yell. “She’s doing okay. Irritable. But what can you expect when _‘any day now’_ still hasn’t come. Even __Glenn’s__  starting to say it.”

“Did she tell him to fuck off?”

“In a very loving way.”

Paul grins when Daryl’s own lips start to quirk, the image of the two lovebirds bickering senselessly over her pregnancy making him want to roll his eyes.

“But they ain’t wrong,” he says after a deep breath. “Looks like she’s ‘bout to pop. Just hope--”

_Just hope it ain’t like Lori,_  is what he doesn’t let himself say. But Paul doesn’t know Lori and he’ll probably never hear the story -- it isn’t Daryl’s to tell. Still, he catches onto the pause and smiles warmly at Daryl, hoping to assuage the fear he can at least guess.

“Carson’s delivered babies here before,” he reminds Daryl. “He’s got the tools he needs _and_  Alex’s helping hand. She’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. Part of Daryl wants to argue that they just don’t know __what__  will happen, but another part only wants to accept the reassurance. The latter wins out. When the younger man shifts, Daryl notices something hidden within his grasp. “What’s that?”

“Oh--” Paul uncurls his fist to show Daryl… a cookie. “Maggie mentioned wanting some, so Enid tried her hand at baking. They’re not bad.”

Daryl takes the soft, crumbly item in hand to look over. The large bite mark is hard to ignore.

“This mine?” he asks incredulously. When Paul nods, he adds: “What, couldn’t get your own?”

Paul laughs in the way he thinks is just __so__ charming. And damn him, but it really is.

“I had to make sure it was safe for my angel, didn’t I?”

“Dumbass.”

He elbows Paul to push him away as he begins to stride again, but Paul barely sways and pops up in front of Daryl mere seconds later. He walks backwards with a confident swagger, his big blues held as wide as they can be, a puppy-dog stare pulling at Daryl’s chest. He shoves the rest of the cookie into his mouth before anything stupid comes tumbling out. The action itself makes Paul’s face relax and the skin around his eyes crinkle fondly.

“You done for the night?” Daryl questions. With his mouth full, it sounds more like gibberish. Paul understands him perfectly.

“Yeah. I’m done talking about when we should start building the roads… until tomorrow.”

“Ain’t a priority.”

“Ezekiel seems to think otherwise.”

“Ezekiel ain’t havin’ a baby or tryin’ to fix houses people lost.”

“Or building stables,” Paul adds slyly. He’s turned himself around now to walk by Daryl’s side, their strides slow and their shoulders brushing.

“Didn’t see you out there gettin’ your pretty lil hands all busted up.”

“Because that’s not the kind of wood I like working with.”

Daryl smacks his knuckles against Paul’s chest, trying his best to ignore the obvious bait. The heat crawling up the back of his neck won’t let him, however.

“Man, you ever stop?”

Paul shrugs and reaches up to catch some hair behind an ear. He turns his head just enough to look at Daryl.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, more serious this time.

Daryl shakes his head.

“Nah. Just got a sliver or somethin’, s’all.”

“I’ll take a look at it.”

The younger man then hops up the steps and shoves the door open. He steps inside and holds it for Daryl, shutting it tightly behind them once he enters, closing them off from the outside world.

Golden beams of sunlight filter in through the streaked window, illuminating specks of dust that float through the air. Stacks of fresh clothing sit haphazardly at the foot of the bed that’s too large for the area it’s in, even after they’d moved it nearer to the window, but far more comfortable than the couch or single that had occupied the space before. It’s the one Daryl had sprained his wrist for on that run a few weeks back, now outfitted with an array of messy blankets and flat pillows. They’ll be shedding most of them in no time, probably should have already with how much body heat they often share, but -- just like with the leather coat and knit hat -- Daryl knows Paul will hang onto the layers for as long as he can. He’ll keep shoving his icicle toes against Daryl’s shins, too.

The bed is messier than the rest of the trailer, except for perhaps the countertop covered in unwashed plates and pans, both of which had been Daryl’s doing. The pile of books pressed against the side of the couch, stacked taller than the armrest, looks about ready to topple over as well.

It’s not as stuffy as it could be, the cracked bathroom window having done wonders in allowing the cooler air to circulate thoroughly in their absence, but they shouldn’t keep it open for much longer, lest they freeze.

Daryl deposits his vest on the back of a chair while Paul disappears into the bathroom. He stands at the table, resting his eyes and listening to the hissing water. It only runs for a minute or two, the shut off followed by footsteps. He reopens his eyes to see Paul coming towards him with a soaked towel outstretched. He rubs the grime from his hands absently, squinting down at the skin as it comes clean. The fresh cloth momentarily soothes whatever irritation all the tools had left in their wake.

Paul flits around the room while Daryl slowly works the dirt away, overturning the towel every few swipes to find a cleaner side. The only noise between them comes from the younger man rustling around inside various drawers and shelves. It doesn’t take him long to find whatever he’s looking for, which turns out to be a sewing needle, and then he approaches Daryl again.

“I need your lighter.”

Daryl obliges the request by fishing the zippo from the pocket of the vest hanging in front of him. The distinct _tink_  sounds when Paul flips the lid, then the hitching of the wheel trying to create the flame. He gets it on the third try and presses the tip of the needle into the heat.

“Turn the lamp on.”

The head jerk towards the side table near the door gets Daryl stepping quickly forward to flick the switch. Golden light flutters from the bulb, the weathered shade not doing much to diminish the glow, allowing it shine brighter than the disappearing sunlight carrying in from only inches away.

Daryl hears Paul set the lighter onto the table just before he presses up against Daryl’s side, waiting expectantly for Daryl’s arm, tugging it upwards when Daryl shows him which one. It’s his turn to squint when Daryl extends his index finger to be examined.

There’s a hum close to his ear when Paul spots the dark speck hidden beneath the sensitive skin too close to a crookedly bitten nail.

The pokes and prods are more uncomfortable than painful, an irritated scrunch of his face being the only reaction to the incessant jabs Paul executes delicately. But there’s relief when the pad of Paul’s finger replaces the pointy object digging into his flesh. The kiss that gets placed at the corner of his mouth feels even nicer.

The thumb dives between Daryl’s lips, a sure sign of nervousness, as he looks at Paul. The little ninja tilts his head curiously, brows furrowing at the continued shyness Daryl knows he’s been exhibiting these last few days. Daryl’s even put the brakes on showering together -- which isn’t something they do often in the first place, but on the rare occasion they __did__  stand in that stall, the signs of trust in those moments of naked vulnerability were quietly prized by both. His fear of doing something impulsive during those instances of intimacy outweighs the desire to partake in them.

And it’s obvious that Paul is chomping at the bit to ask what the hell is going on, but still holding out hope that his patience will be rewarded if he just gives Daryl space. So far, it hasn’t worked.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “Gonna go wash.”

Paul sighs and steps back. He drops the needle beside the lighter and scratches at his beard.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Daryl bends to search the pile of clothing to grab whatever’s soft enough to keep Paul from complaining about his toes getting caught in the holes of Daryl’s baggy, ripped jeans. He balls the clothing up into his fist and shuffles into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind. His sigh is one of frustration.

He doesn’t need to make things __weird__ , which is exactly what he’s doing, almost like he’s plopping them back to square one. But that’s all in his head, which is even more of a problem. Pulling back. It’s a habit that had been hard to break and Daryl’s falling into it once more, relapsing after months of progression. It’s _Paul,_ of all people, and Daryl feels like an idiot for not just saying what’s on his mind. He just… doesn’t know _how;_ to say it, to do it, to feel it.

The shower helps to ease his tension, all the aches and pains of the day slipping down the gurgling drain, but it doesn’t give him any ideas on what to do next. He’s on his own for that.

Daryl shuts off the water, leaving himself inside the steam. He shakes excess droplets from his dripping hair, pressing his palms against the tile and then hanging his head forward, the dark strands drawing around his face like thin drapes. The tiny cubicle smells like an array of soaps. It smells like Paul.

Daryl wipes the hair from his eyes and slides the fogged door open to step out. The towel he runs over his body is too soft and too small, but it does a good enough job drying him off so as not to soak his clothes when he puts them on. There’s a twinge in his left wrist when he pulls the dark sweats up to rest just below his waist. They’d still be too short even if he pulled them farther down, so he leaves them be shrugs the shirt on quickly, exiting the bathroom with the towel scrunched under his arm.

Paul’s at the table with his familiar book, the top of a pencil pressed just barely between his lips. He turns his head not even an inch to acknowledge Daryl before dropping his gaze back down to the pages spread out before him.

“What’re you doin’ now?” Daryl wonders. He steps forward to lay his towel over the back of the closest chair.

“Just trying to figure out the best possible routes for the--”

“Roads you said you weren’t gonna think ‘bout ‘til tomorrow?”

Paul can’t stop that crooked little grin from forming.

_“Right,”_ he agrees with a chuckle. He slides his hand beneath the cover of the book to slap it closed. When he pushes away from the table to stand, he grabs Daryl’s towel from the chair and drapes it across his still-wet head, giving it a ruffle.

Daryl snorts but takes the hint and begins to dry the mess a little more thoroughly. He chews on his bottom lip while Paul ties his hair up as he shuffles over to search for some of his own clothes to wear. The younger man reaches the bathroom door when Daryl quickly asks:

“You wanna eat?”

He’s sure it’s been a quite a few hours for both of them, measly cookies aside, and he could definitely fill himself up before he hits the pillow for the night. It’s not even fully dark yet.

“Yeah,” Paul says over his shoulder. “Sounds good.”

So that’s what Daryl does. He sets about warming the previous night’s tomato soup on the hot plate, standing in front of the counter and peering down into red liquid.

He downs a glass of water while he waits and tries not to let his thoughts wander too far, using his thumb nail to scratch at the chipping paint of the counter he leans against.

Daryl stares at the purpling skin of his hands, at the raw spot on his splinter-free finger. The ghost of Paul’s touch makes him shiver, the remembered gentleness igniting sparks inside his gut. He crosses his arms tightly of his chest, trying to snuff the sensation out, and forces his mind to go blank. The buzzing through his body won’t allow it.

There’s a flash of a memory -- backing Paul against the door, stealing oxygen and common sense through swirls of tongues and skittish hands -- melding with a dream -- one where Daryl doesn’t dart away the moment Paul draws their hips together by a tug of belt loops, one where he works his way between Paul’s thighs and stays there until they fall to the floor in a satisfied heap -- that makes his blood run too hot, and not even with the shame that still plagues him every once in a blue moon.

“Daryl?”

The touch to his shoulder has him jerking away momentarily, then mentally cursing himself for being so lost and jumpy.

“What’s wrong?” Paul demands, his own arms folding high on his torso as Daryl drops his to dangle. Paul’s got his head tilted, too, though he can’t see much of Daryl’s expression when he turns to the soup, which is boiling rapidly.

“Nothin’,” he bites out. “Just thinkin’.”

“About?”

Daryl doesn’t answer. He unplugs the hot plate and moves the man off the coils, setting it on a rag he pulls from a hook on the wall. His elbow poking pole in the stomach gets him to step backwards so he can reach the stack of bowls, but it in no way drops the subject.

“You know,” he says, low and careful, “I’m not as patient as you seem to think.”

“So?”

_“So_  you’ll have to talk about whatever’s bothering you sooner or later. Did I do something to piss you off?”

“No,” Daryl grumbles, not meeting Paul’s searching gaze. “S’nothin’.”

“You were fine earlier. In fact, you’re fine every day until we come back here for the night. It’s definitely something--”

“It ain’t.” Daryl reaches for Paul’s arms to pry them from his chest, shoving a bowl into his hands. “Eat, ‘fore it gets cold.”

“Yeah, right,” Paul mumbles. “Pretty sure you boiled the flavor out of it.”

But the younger man sits nonetheless and Daryl joins him, the legs of their wooden chairs scraping against the trailer floor with too much force. Daryl starts shoveling the soup into his mouth immediately, ignoring the heat scorching his tongue. Paul chooses to wait by setting his hands in his lap and toying with his fingers.

Daryl’s made him anxious and now he feels like shit. Dammit.

His bowl’s about empty by the time Paul starts devouring his own food. When it’s slurped clean, he sits back in his chair and waits in the quiet, chewing at his bottom lip once more. Paul looks at him every so often, eyes narrowed in suspicion, nostrils flaring every time he takes a breath to say something and then decides to keep quiet instead.

If he just -- he _could_  -- No. No, he’s not going to discuss it. If he ignores the issue it won’t go away, but he might be able to forget about it. Maybe. It’s not as if he’s even had __that__  kind of a problem yet. In all honestly, Daryl’s not even certain he _can,_ doesn’t even remember the last time he got it up. Certainly not for someone else. Not that it matters…

Daryl looks up again and is caught by Paul’s stare, only this time it’s his usual wide-eyed curiosity, maybe even more thoughtful than usual. Like hes trying to figure Daryl out. Nothing unusual there, but he’s never quite gotten over how easily Paul can break through his defenses. It’s happening now.

Picking the bowl up and standing, Daryl leans across the table at the last minute to press a kiss to Paul’s mouth, lingering only long enough to convey his apology. He can feel Paul’s sigh against his chin just before he tilts his head back, expression softening.

“That won’t always work,” he teases.

Daryl sure as hell hopes it does.

He leaves Paul to finish eating, washing the tomato stains from his bowl in the bathroom sink and then coming back around to set it on the counter for drying. The pan’s still a mess, but that’ll have to wait. The sky’s darkened enough to justify him turning in early and suddenly all he wants to do is rest the limbs that feel like weights and the brain that feels like clumps of wet sand.

The sheets are cool to the touch, the blankets comforting to sink into. He wiggles up the mattress to find a spot for his head on one of the pillows. Light from the lamp by the window still sets the trailer aglow.

But it isn’t long before Paul stands to turn the lamp off, his shadowy silhouette moving in the weak moonlight as he adjusts the tie around his knot of damp hair. Daryl blinks a few times to adjust his eyesight, though it does no good since Paul slips into bed moments after.

And it he didn’t bring the lantern over.

“You ain’t readin’?” he asks, craning his neck to see Paul’s face when he settles beside him, inches away.

“Not tonight. Unless you want me to?”

The back of Daryl’s neck feels like an iron.

_“No,”_ he grumbles, feeling silly for how often he lets Paul read to him. It’s not a routine, exactly, but just another thing he’d gotten used to.

The little ninja props up onto an elbow, reaching forward to brush back the hair fanned across Daryl’s cheekbones. He tugs at a strand, twisting it between his fingers. Daryl feels the thick, wiry beard before the soft lips above it press a kiss to his forehead. Daryl’s eyelids flutter on instinct and his chest swells with a deep inhale when the hand that had toyed with his hair moves to cradle his face.

A thumb smooths over his heavy lids, caressing down his cheek to trace the seem of his lips, tickling the dry, sensitive skin until Daryl’s tongue darts out to wet it. Paul’s hum is deep and low when the tip catches the pad of his thumb and the sound rumbles through Daryl like a revving engine.

It doesn’t stop there.

There’s a kiss and then another, both the very definition of unhurried.  He suspects Paul might be testing him, trying to work through the frustration of not being able to understand Daryl’s latest quirk by getting to the root of it.

But there’s nothing _studious_  about Paul’s mouth capturing his, nothing remotely calculated. They even bump noses like they haven’t been doing this for months when Paul pulls back and Daryl tries to follow, only for Paul to dive back in at the last second. Teeth enter the kiss then, his little ninja’s smile too bright to ignore. Daryl fits his hand around the back of Paul’s neck to keep them connected.

Paul takes that as his cue to make himself comfortable halfway on top of Daryl’s body, lowering down until his chest is flush against Daryl’s, a bony knee bumping the outside of his thigh, slender fingers massaging into tangles of the dark hair fanned across the pillow. He might sink right through the mattress, if he’s not careful. He doesn’t __want__  to be, and yet--

It’s like a ledge he just can’t seem to scale; one foot over, dangling above solid ground, but will that second foot break the solid foundation? Will that second step crack what they’ve already built? Maybe he won’t know until he tries.

Breath doesn’t come easy, not even when Paul pulls up for a pause, forehead resting against Daryl’s brow bone. Air puffs out against his jaw and farther down his neck where it tickles. Daryl squeezes his eyes shut when that penetrating gaze refocuses and settles upon the side of his face. And he has to smile -- just a little -- when he feels that upturned nose nuzzle against his cheek.

It’s gone in an instant, leaving a tingle that begs for more and a weight of disappointment that settles next to the coil in his stomach. A self-inflicted wound, one that only he can heal with something as corny as _courage_. His lungs feed eagerly on a deep, calming inhale.

“Goodnight,” Paul says into his shoulder, a kiss of its own planted on a patch of skin bared by his sleeveless shirt.

He puts some inches between them, just enough for Daryl to flop onto his side, turning his back to Paul’s front. Daryl pats around for a blanket, having to shift up to pull it from beneath his legs so he can draw it halfway up his body. Paul does the same and goes so far as to kick at the other covers he doesn’t currently need.

“Night,” Daryl murmurs belatedly into the disquiet.

There’s a clock ticking somewhere inside his brain, the little stretches of silence telling him not to be an ass. He brings an arm up from his side to rub at his nose, throwing it behind with abandon in a search for Paul’s arm, running down until he can grab hold of a limp hand. He waits until Paul slots their fingers together, a sign that his gesture is welcome, then pulls their arms over his side to rest near his stomach.

Those inches that had been put between them minutes ago dissipate even quicker with Paul’s body wiggling closer and closer until he’s pressed against Daryl back, fitting behind him in a way that shouldn’t work but always does. It’s like he’s got a damn backpack on in bed, only heavier, warmer, and far more cuddly. And nothing he could wear would ever make him feel _this_  safe. It’s enough to make him boneless.

When Daryl feels his mind begin to slowly ease itself into something less conscious, he’s stirred awake by a semi-rhythmic tapping high on his chest. It’s not soothing and it’s not irritating, just a mindless motion that makes him squint towards the window in the dark. He fidgets with a corner of his pillowcase when the busy hand drops to his stomach, the muscles there immediately going taut.

Those roving fingers get even more curious and soon enough Daryl’s breath is catching his his throat with the hem of his shirt finding its way boldly up his side. Neatly trimmed fingernails scrape across his abdomen, sending a jolt to rock his shoulders. It’s not a foreign sensation, nor is it unwelcome, but it resonates as uncharted territory, the motives behind the movement like crystal cutting through a fog.

The too-soft brush across the hair that disappears below his waistband has his body going rigid even as his insides churn like stormy waters.

He can recognize his own voice when he grits out __Paul__ , but flushes with heat when he realizes just how much it sounds like a plea rather than a warning. His hand shoots out to clamp onto Paul’s thin wrist, holding on when the wandering fingers splay below his belly button. He’s fairly certain he can feel two hammering heartbeats working in conjunction. The difference is that Daryl’s is much, much louder in his ears.

And Paul moves again.

He thumbs at the thin hair at Daryl’s naval while two fingers slip beneath the elastic band of his pants, the other two twisting in the tie as if ready to loosen the knot. Down, down, down-- Daryl snorts like an impatient bull, the sound at odds with his sudden squirming.

Paul withdraws his hand immediately, snatching it back before Daryl can roll on op of it when he flops onto his back.

“Sorry,” Paul says, as nonchalant as if he’d kicked Daryl rather than try to grope his dick. “I’ll be good.”

“Yeah, like you’ve ever been _good _.__ And what the hell were you doin’?”

Paul’s shoulders move in a lazy shrug.

“You have your secrets and I have mine,” he replies just because he knows he can.

Daryl can, however, sense a tinge of hurt in his tone. They don’t keep shit from each other, especially because of how awful they _both_  are at sharing feelings. It’s a rule that they do so without judgment, which Daryl seems to have thrown out the window.

His silence must be filled with obvious guilt because then Paul adds: “But if you really wanna know… I had a hunch. And I’m still not sure if it’s right.”

So, maybe he does know; suspects it, at the very least, which should make things easier. But all Daryl can hear inside his head is Carol’s noncommittal offering, one he scoffed at until she got the hint and started to joke instead, and he doesn’t want a repeat of that here. He could rephrase it, sure, but that would take _hours_  of thought and then he’d end up chickening out anyways, he knows that for a fact.

But Daryl knows Paul won’t let it sit for any longer. He’d waited all week to confront him about this mounting issue and now that it’s out in the open, his little ninja will make sure it stays that way. Daryl can practically hear the whirring in that sharp mind, his mouth twisting every which way as a sure indicator that he’s mulling over much more than he’d dare say.

“I could take a guess,” Paul decides, but _no,_ Daryl definitely doesn’t want him to do that, turn this whole thing into some stupid game. Sensing Daryl’s disapproval of the idea, Paul adds, “You could just tell me. Or maybe show me.”

There it is. The heart that had been racing moments ago feels frozen now. Paul _does_ know, though Daryl can’t figure out how. But he shouldn’t be surprised; Paul’s prodding always leads to Daryl making that final push, which also always turns out fine. A team effort.

The lump in Daryl’s throat might be his pride. He’s not sure if he should swallow it down or not.

“If you want to,” Paul says quickly, words pitched low and quiet like he’s afraid Daryl’s taken his suggestion the wrong way. “I don’t know why you’ve been avoiding it, if you’re not sure you’re ready to talk or if you you think I don’t-- I mean, it’s pretty obvious I--”

“Shut up.”

Daryl surges forward to cover Paul’s mouth with a kiss for good measure, the only sure-fire way to quiet him immediately.

Paul grabs at Daryl’s face in response to the sudden attack, fingers stretching around, getting caught in the hair at his nape. Daryl leaves him no choice but to flatten against the mattress fully when he swings a leg over to the other side of Paul’s hips to straddle the younger man’s thighs. The hand in Daryl’s hair tightens, the other scrabbling across the wide expanse of his back covered in thin cotton.

Daryl pulls up to take a breath and drops his forehead to the jutting collarbone sticking out beneath Paul’s too-big shirt. The noise that tears through Paul’s throat is the startled and eager, belated, and the grip on his hair becomes a tender touch to his jaw and throat. His teeth drag against Paul’s bottom lip

“Daryl.” His mumbled _“what”_  resembles more of a hum. “Hey, look at me.”

When Daryl does, he’s treated to one of the softest smiles he thinks anyone could ever muster.

“What?” he repeats, voice clear of anything but the slightest tremble this time.

“If I’m reading this right--”

“Y’know you are.”

“Is it because of me?”

Daryl’s face contorts with confusion, eyes darting over the features of Paul’s face he can make out through the darkness.

“Well, yeah. Wouldn’t wanna if it weren’t you.”

One of Paul’s eyes shuts tight, an imitation of a wink that holds, and that soft smile turns lopsided, but Daryl can feel the tension in the body beneath his.

“I don’t want you doing something just because you think you have to.”

“It ain’t like that,” Daryl rumbles, unable to meet Paul’s gaze head on. He reaches to the younger man’s face instead, using his thumb to smooth the deep crease between sparse brows.

“You sure? I’ve got two hands and a great imagination.” His quip draws a snort from Daryl and, more importantly, has him chancing a look up to Paul’s watchful eyes. “I’ve been fine and I will be, but… do I really get you, too?”

“You already got me.”

The words slip out before Daryl can catch them and he bites down hard on his tongue as punishment, not even blinking at the pain. He’s too focused on the slackening of Paul’s jaw to care.

“That’s the sappiest thing you’ve ever said,” Paul concludes. The amusement that Daryl expects is no where to be heard. “That means you’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

“Then okay.”

Like it’s _that_  simple. Like Daryl had no reason to be nervous or paranoid or whatever the hell he’d been feeling this whole time. It doesn’t matter anymore because Daryl can’t even suss out what he’s feeling __now.__  Something he’s never felt before; something he never thought he would.

“Just don’t get your hopes up.” Daryl leans away from Paul, withdrawing from atop his lower half to sit on his side of the bed again, scratching nervously at the scruff on his chin. “Never, uh… But I want--”

He stops in the middle of his sentence when Paul sits up, his hand encircling Daryl’s with a reassuring and overwhelmingly warm hold. Then he’s leaning in like he did that very first time, cupping Daryl’s face and tilting his head to an angle he knows they like, the scrape of Paul’s beard sending a shiver up Daryl’s spine. And his lips -- oh, they’re soft and wet, kneading Daryl’s sensitive nerves, an answer and a tease rolled into one.

Daryl’s breath comes from his nose in short bursts when they separate and his hands settle at Paul’s hips, unthinkingly drawing him in closer. Their lips smack together again, a noisy peck before Paul pushes at Daryl’s chest to send him backward. He obeys the silent command by laying flat, keeping a tight hold on Paul’s shifting hips, using him as an anchor to keep steady.

Paul is lighter, more agile, and he fits much better on top of Daryl than Daryl had on top of him. He holds Daryl’s face firmly between his palms, tilts his chin to deepen their kiss, savoring the slow massage of soft and sharp. And the tongue inside his mouth is like molten, all wet slides and heated probing, igniting every crevice it touches in an intimate exploration they both know well. Even so, the feeling rocks Daryl as if the experience of kissing Paul so thoroughly is still something strange and new, something that gets his blood rushing in a way that self-preservation could only come close to while still paling in comparison.

A kiss gets placed to the corner of Daryl’s mouth, followed by another to his and then one far up to the round tip of his nose. Then Paul leans back just enough to be able to look down without his eyes going cross. He’s rosy red and hazy eyed, the most distressing sight of beauty in all forms, carnal in its current state without erasing the deep roots of tenderness planted deep between them.

Daryl reaches up instinctively to curl a fallen strand of hair behind one of Paul’s ears. He cups the shell of it, thumbing the lobe and soaking in the heat, but his hand is taken away seconds later when Paul places it to his chest, holding it over his heart for Daryl to feel the beat.

Daryl thinks to say something, though the words can’t make it out, whatever they might be. He’s struck, turned dumb and silent, staring into the face above his with Paul’s expression so raw and open in a way it so rarely is. And Daryl knows that, staring right back at him, Paul can see the same thing in him.

Daryl slides his hand from Paul’s chest to his waist, to the hem of the baggy shirt. It’s a hint and the only one the smaller man needs. Paul sits up, still straddling Daryl’s legs, and yanks the suddenly offending item off by the collar. It falls to the floor in a heap. Daryl can’t clearly see all the little details he knows are there -- dark trails of hair, rigid lines, the scar marking the softer skin of his stomach -- but he can _feel_ it, map it with his hands unlike he’s ever done before.

Paul isn’t shy about watching Daryl touch him. He tracks every little shift of fingers across his solid torso with lidded eyes and a bitten lip. Daryl traces the warm skin with baited breath, hating his own timidity, but that thought vanishes when Paul jerks to the side with a snort, redirecting Daryl’s hand instantly.

“You ticklish?” He wonders with amusement. How had he never noticed that before? It had to be all the layers.

“No,” is Paul’s unconvincing answer. Then he careens forward for another kiss, giving Daryl a warning nip when his fingers dart towards that sensitive spot near Paul’s ribcage again.

But his interest in the younger man’s new-found weakness wanes the second he feels his own shirt being shoved incessantly up his torso, urging Daryl to shift into something better resembling a sitting position. He feels a momentary lurch of apprehension at having the shirt come off, as he usually does when faced with such a decision, but he aborts the movement before Paul can get wind of it. His scars aren’t anything Paul hasn’t seen or touched already and Daryl knows his back won’t be the focus of the night.

Soon enough, his shirt joins the one the floor.

Paul starts a path of open-mouthed kisses across Daryl’s jaw, hands working to skim over all the newly bared skin, paying particular attention to his arms.

“Are you flexing?” he breathes teasingly into Daryl’s ear, beard scraping the shell. Daryl doesn’t bother with feeling embarrassed; he burrows against Paul’s neck instead, latching onto the pale flesh with teeth and tongue.

The satisfaction of Paul’s chuckle getting caught in his throat by a sudden hitched breath is still nothing compared to the way he rolls his hips against Daryl’s thigh. He lowers his head to lave at the jutting collarbone, grabbing low on Paul’s hip when another roll turns into a slow, sensual grind. Daryl props that leg up to offer more leverage for Paul, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him from toppling off when he continues to rock.

He feels an arm loop the back his neck with fingers hooking into mussed hair, tugging sharply to pull Daryl’s face away from the blooming bruise below his neck. Paul’s head falls back, further revealing the long column of his throat to Daryl’s sharp gaze. He wants to attack again, to bite and bruise and nuzzle, but he doesn’t get the chance because once he starts matching Paul’s thrusts the younger man hunches forward with a moan, tucking himself into Daryl as close as he can. It’s a vulnerable position that he can’t imagine either of them allowing anyone else, not now, but all Daryl can really think of in this moment is the plush mouth showering kisses against his pulse point, then crossing over to mouth at his protruding adam’s apple. Daryl’s sure Paul can feel the vibrations of his silent growls against his his tongue.

But he can’t keep quiet for long, not when the contact grows bolder, and a short grunt rips from his throat when the movements against his thigh turns rhythmic. He registers the distinct hardness rubbing against him just as his slippery mouth is smothered by swollen lips. The tightening in Daryl’s gut surfaces at full force and whatever breath he can breathe comes out in rapid gasps while he tries to touch everything the smaller man is offering.

Nails scrape Paul’s spine, knuckles following the hair up his stomach. He thumbs at a nipple in passing and swallows a deep groan passed from the mouth sealed to his. Then his hand slides up the back of Paul’s head to reach the knot on top and starts to tug on the elastic tie, quickly realizing he needs both hands to let the hair loose without yanking. Rather than doing it himself, Paul drapes his arms over Daryl’s shoulders to keep still and lowers his head so Daryl doesn’t have to reach too far.

Hair drapes around naked shoulders, a contrast of dark and light even in the shadows, a soft mess cascading through the crevices of Daryl’s fingers. He’s not sure if it’s the way he fists the strands or if it’s the continuous pressure against Paul’s dick, but something gets him groaning a desperate whine against Daryl’s cheek. Hearing the unexpected sound, feeling it rush through him like it’s molded into his veins, sends a shot of arousal into Daryl’s system, dowsing low-lit flames with gallons of gasoline.

Paul stills, breathing heavy, and steers his heady touch to a new place: Daryl’s waistband.

Daryl’s palms brace against the mattress. His muscles tense, heart lurching into the back of his throat when Paul fits his fingertips inside, groping Daryl’s length from over his boxers. He’s not hard like Paul is, not yet, but he tries not to worry about how long that’ll take -- or if it’ll even happen at all. He’s never had much drive for this kind of thing, it’s only been awakened recently. But what if he can’t--

“Daryl,” Paul rumbles.

Daryl blinks away the intruding thoughts and looks to Paul from over his nose. He’s pulled his hand out of Daryl’s sweats, resting it near his hipbone where his thumb swipes soothingly. Daryl’s eyelids slip closed as Paul presses their foreheads together.

“Worrying about it won’t help.”

“Ain’t _worried,”_ Daryl lies.

“We can stop--”

“Nah. C’mon.”

“Will you relax, then?” Paul asks. He smooths his palms over Daryl’s biceps and dips his chin to kiss a broad shoulder. Daryl wraps both arms around Paul’s back to hold him closer, a simple embrace in the midst of everything else. “We’ve got time.”

They do. Daryl doesn’t know for how long, but they _do_. Time for now, time for this. It’d be worth it.

He tilts his head back enough to meet Paul’s mouth in a soft parting. The tenderness he receives in return has him wanting __more more more--__

“You gonna take this off?”

It’s his turn to tug at Paul’s pajama bottoms, undoing the strings with a couple of swift jerks. The smile against his scruffy jaw feels exactly like a smirk.

“Is that what you want?”

“S’what _you_  want.”

He drops a heavy hand down on Paul’s lap to knead his erection, squeezing a little harder than the pressure he’d received. The following _ugh_ is nothing short of a keen, drawn out when Paul bites his lip and surges up into the touch, searching for more. But he reluctantly pulls Daryl’s hand away only seconds later.

He rolls off Daryl in a fluid motion, dropping his pants, kicking them off his legs. They join the growing pile of cloth on the trailer floor, but the clinging briefs that do nothing to hide _anything_  stay firmly in place as he climbs back onto Daryl’s sprawled form.

“I want something else now,” he whispers against Daryl’s mouth, scorching fingers wiggling beneath the waistband of his sweatpants again.

Daryl lifts his hips enough for Paul to be able to pull the sweats down over his ass, jerking his legs to help work them off where they catch on his feet. He hauls Paul forward the moment those pants fall off the mattress, dragging scratchy kisses across his little ninja’s face. The fingertips tracing the insides of his thighs leave tremors in their wake.

It’s clashes of tongues and teeth; groping, trembling hands fumbling for purchase on backs and necks. It’s puffs of hot breaths and soft moans lingering in echoes. It’s Daryl’s insides turning to mush, gut coiling tight and chest overflowing with emotion.

And it’s Paul circling his hips in another bid to find the right amount of friction, groaning in frustration when it’s no longer enough. He stops sucking on Daryl’s tongue in order to scoot backwards on the bed.

“Can I blow you?”

Daryl nearly jokes. His cheeks heat up like a damn furnace.

“Good _Lord._ ”

“Thanks, but I prefer Jesus.”

The little shit swats Daryl’s foot when he kicks out at him.

“This ain’t no time for your shit jokes,” he grumbles, but he wishes he could see Paul’s eyes, know how much blue has been swallowed by pure black.

“The question still stands.”

He’d never really thought of Paul doing that before -- any of his imaginings as of late usually involved getting his hands on Paul, turning __him__  into a blubbering mess despite his absent skill-set for such a thing -- but the scenario conjuring inside his mind of that plush mouth encompassing his dick is enough to short-circuit his brain and send a deep twinge of arousal far down south.

“Uh--” Swallowing and breathing are two very difficult things. “If you wanna--”

Daryl doesn’t get to finish with the _“but you don’t gotta”_ he’d planned on adding because Paul’s already flattening himself down between Daryl legs, running his palms up the skin his fingers had been caressing. It’s Daryl’s turn to squirm and, on one particular swipe, he fails at holding back a snort. He’d never even realized his body possessed any weird ticklish zones, but he knows _now_  exactly what Paul had felt earlier when he’d prodded those soft spots on his sides.

Daryl’s first instinct is to jump away from the feather-light tingles, but luckily Paul doesn’t have torture on the brain. And soon enough those touches are replaced by bruising sucks, Daryl’s muffled snickering switched out for hiccuping gasps the higher Paul trails his lips and nose. That thick beard follows along dutifully, scraping roughly over too-sensitive skin in a way that makes him whimper and stir.

He’s vaguely aware of his own hands working his boxers down, though they get stuck near his knees when Paul’s body blocks the way. Daryl can’t bother with modesty, they’re far past that, so instead of trying cover up he simply stares down at Paul’s face, waiting for him to meet his gaze, but Paul continues to gawk at Daryl’s mostly soft penis like it’s somehow _fascinating._  He doesn’t want to be studied like some kind of exotic animal or weird lab experiment, but at the same time he can’t pretend it bothers him too much; the _looks_ have always made him feel important. Worthy.

The only difference is the way it feels to have Paul sit back on his haunches, whistling low and long just as he tilts his head back up to look Daryl in the eye. He wants to wince and roll his eyes and _laugh_ because Paul is ridiculous. Daryl knows he’s nothing to look at, but Paul’s not joking or pretending despite his playful attitude. The fact that he can’t keep his hands to himself is a testament of that truth. What he ends up doing is producing the noise one can only create when your lips start flapping together, the one that looks and sounds exactly like those damn horses he’d been spending too much time with out back.

Paul is not deterred.

Squeezing Daryl’s knees, which rest on either side of him, he asks:

“Can I turn the light on?”

“No.”

“It’s either that or I get the flashlight.”

Shining a little beam of light on him seems even worse. He frowns.

“What d’you need a light for?”

“So I can _see,_ Daryl.”

“Ain’t nothin’ you haven’t _seen_  already, smartass.”

“Humor me. Please?”

It takes a few silent seconds of Paul’s nimble fingers caressing tightness out of his calves for Daryl to cave. He can’t be too regretful because lights on means he’ll be able to see _Paul,_ too. The thought sets his heart ashamedly aflutter.

“Fine,” he growls. He gets a sweet little kiss for his troubles.

The little ninja’s off of Daryl and over by the window in no time at all, flicking on the light and then drawing the curtains shut for safe measure. Daryl kicks at the sheets for something to do, to avoid the heavy gaze he feels settle on him while Paul starts climbing back atop the bed to retake his earlier position. Daryl reaches for his hands on impulsive desire for comfort, twining their fingers while Paul’s eyes dart over every inch of his body in a full assessment. Staring up at his face, Daryl can see that those pretty irises are definitely losing out to lustful pupils.

“Wow.” The amazement is perplexing to Daryl. _“Fuck._ Look at you.”

“Shut up. You gonna sit there all night or what?”

“I could. I might like to.” The prick grins at Daryl wolfishly. “You’re blushing.”

“I ain’t!” Daryl pulls at Paul’s hands, although he makes no real attempt at untangling the hold. “It’s fuckin’ hot in here.”

“It sure is.”

Daryl knows Paul well enough by now to understand he’s not talking about the temperature. And as hard as it is for him to accept or even really understand, Daryl can concede that if Paul’s view is anything like Daryl’s then it must be a hell of a sight.

But Paul doesn’t take in the new view with just his eyes. He reaches out to touch, too; following lines he’d already explored with heightened interest, copying over the inked shapes along Daryl’s arms and chest with great care. Whatever string that had been holding him at bay completely snaps under the weight of such tenderness.

He hauls the younger man closer by his hair to smash their mouths together in a rough lock, licking through the seam with renewed vigor when Paul’s groan shakes his very core.

Paul bites his jaw, his neck, his chest. The flat of his tongue swirls over a nipple more than once -- how can Daryl count when he feels like _this?_ \-- but he doesn’t linger long. As the length of scratchy kisses grows and grows, so does Daryl’s desire, stretching out across his nerves like a livewire. The _thud_ his head makes when it bangs against the wall, dropped back for lack of anything else to do, is barely a dent in the thumping heartbeat inside his ears.

Is Paul grabbing his dick supposed to feel like a punch in the gut? He has no damn clue and no damn time to think about it because the next hit comes in the form of an engulfing wetness. Daryl forces his neck to hold the weight of his head up long enough for him to assess the situation. What he finds is Paul watching him steadily, slack-jawed and unflinching with Daryl held loosely against his tongue. The feel of it -- slick, warm, _soft_  -- is almost as unbearable as the dark, wide eyes burning into his soul.

“Shit, man.”

It’s a whisper that gets Paul’s eyes narrowing, the corners crinkling in a smile he can’t offer with his lips already spread wide. Daryl starts to squirm when the gentle breaths washing over his cock becomes a sharp stimulation. His spine arches and his hands ball into fists that press beneath his ears, and the hand clutching his thigh suddenly snakes even farther down to press beneath his balls.

There’s an agonizing second where his body lurches with what might be that fight or flight instinct, feeding that voice in the back of his mind that says he’s too defenseless, too enamored, _not good enough._ But then the next second comes and the words in his head vanish, replaced by an electricity that had only been imaginary for so long.

“Daryl? Are you with me?”

“Yeah.” Paul’s hair is silk between his fingers. “M’with you.”

“If you change your mind--”

“I know, but I won’t.”

Paul wastes no time taking him in hand, thumb smoothing over a vein while his tongue flattens over the tip.

_Worrying about it won’t help._

So, screw it. He won’t. Having his mind occupied __only__  by the little hippie prick bent down in between his quivering knees has never been an issue.

Propping himself up into a sitting position allows Daryl to see every aspect of the wondrous sight that is Paul, to fully comprehend every swipe and lick and nuzzle. Because Paul hadn’t just gone back to holding him inside the velvety cavern of his mouth, there was _movement_  now, slow and teasing. Sexy in a way he didn’t think was real, lighting him up faster than dynamite.

Paul’s moan vibrating around Daryl’s hardening cock is a rush to all of his senses. It makes him twitch and burn with heart-pounding _want._

Fleeting touches turn into firm pumps, kitten licks into long stripes. Daryl can hear himself whine, sounding far away to his fogging brain, but Paul hears it loud and clear. He hears it and looks at Daryl with hollowed cheeks and sparkling eyes. He looks at Daryl with reverence.

Then he _sucks_  and Daryl sees stars that rival the ones dotted high above the trailer’s roof.

“Fuck! Paul--” He drops down low on Daryl’s thick length, bobs languidly back up. “Paul! _ _”__

The younger man smirks when he pops off Daryl’s dick, the agonizing up-and-down of his hand never once stopping. Both of their chests heave.

“I love the way you say my name.”

_“Paul…”_

It’s deliberate that time, a tease of his own that gets the younger man’s face flushing darker and his smile turning dizzy. And, definitely not for the first time -- not even for the night -- it hits Daryl just how _beautiful_  this guy is. Stunning. Divine. This smart-ass, with a big brain and an even bigger heart, that can dropkick walkers and hold Daryl’s hand as easy as one breath to the next. And he’s Daryl’s in all the ways that could matter. He’s _his._

As fucking amazing as it feels to have Paul’s fist twisting at the base of his erection, his beard scraping the curved underside while his lips press along the wet tip, Daryl’s body is thrumming with a pressure he knows can only rocket higher if Paul feels it just as much.

It’s the only thing he wants right now, for Paul to feel _this_  good.

His hands find the smaller man’s ass and dig in, tugging him forward with enough force to slide him up Daryl’s waist. Paul props himself up onto sturdy arms and presses down into Daryl’s hands, simultaneously grinding his hardness into Daryl’s stomach and his bottom into groping fingers. Paul’s hair slips over his shoulders to surround their heads, but Daryl gathers it in a shaking fist and uses it lure Paul into an intimately sloppy kiss.

There’s a moan between them, more than likely one-- an expression of breathy euphoria that could be ripped from either of them, the following guttural growl just as mysterious. But the sweet sound of Paul whispering against him -- _Daryl Daryl Daryl _\--__ is as unmistakable as it is provocative, and his brain clears just long enough to let him know how much he loves the way Paul says _his_ name, too.

The younger man tries to untangle himself from Daryl in order to slide off the bed, finally ready to shuck off the briefs that look far too tight to fit, but Daryl doesn’t let him get far. He stretches to keep a hold on Paul by wrapping an arm around his stomach, nuzzling at the dip in his lower back. He smells like the earth, like musk and sweat, like linen and jasmine. It drives him crazy.

As soon as the underwear falls to the floor, Daryl leads Paul into their previous position, although he waits for Paul to settle himself however he’d like. Then it’s Daryl’s turn to get his rough fingers around Paul’s leaking cock for the first time.

His firm grip is rewarded with sweaty palms on his chest and a choked sigh breathed against his parted lips.

“Oh, fuck. _Daryl_ \--”

Paul tosses his head back, which gives Daryl ample room to latch onto his throat like he had earlier. Nails scrape over his shoulders, clawing at the scars on his back as if they aren’t even there, completely irrelevant to the feelings charging faster still. Daryl shivers and his hips jerk, and he finds himself searching for friction against Paul’s bare ass with a greater need.

He’s shoved back moments later. Paul’s dick falls from his hold as they press together fully, chest-to-chest and nose-to-nose. Paul’s lips graze over the corner of his mouth and a heated cheek, all the way up to his ear to nibble at a lobe.

With a hoarse voice, words strained with desire, Paul asks:

“What do you want?”

“You.”

He’s not embarrassed by his urgent request, he’s far away from that in this state of mind. Even when Paul chuckles, Daryl knows it’s not __at__ him. It’s an almost giddy exclamation and he wants to drown himself in that sound.

Paul shimmies back to align their dicks with one below the other, Daryl’s fingers sinking harder into Paul’s hips and sides. Below soft skin he feels tense muscles and powerful bones, strength that will always amaze and fuel his own.

Paul’s pulse hammers away against Daryl’s nose when he burrows against the lean stretch of neck presented to him. He follows the nudge with teeth and tongue, with heavy sighs and incoherent murmurs.

The body above him starts to move with steady undulations. His chest is showered with attention and his arms or pushed above his head, held there in a loose grip. Daryl plants his feet flat against the mattress as leverage to help him thrust upward, rubbing both of their erections frantically between their stomachs. The change has Paul putting more weight on Daryl’s arms, trapping them, but he doesn’t feel tied down. He feels secure. Safe. _Wanted._ Everything else piles right on top.

“Paul,” he pants, his choked word immediately gathering up whatever senses Paul has left. He pulls his face away from Daryl’s nipple to stare down at him, eyes black and lidded, pale skin blotchy with a deep blush. A shock of pleasure starts at the frenzied contact, shooting out through his limbs, fragmented bullets of pleasure coursing through his bloodstream. “Ah, _shit,_ Paul--”

The friction becomes too harsh after minutes of trying to sync up, the spit from Paul blowing Daryl no longer enough to keep the motions smooth. He mentions something about lube, at least that’s what Daryl thinks he hears, and starts to move away _again_  which prompts Daryl to take charge.

He breaks out of the hold and seizes Paul’s slim wrist to lick long stripes up each finger he quickly unfurls. He’s done this to himself multiple times -- granted, under circumstances far more innocuous -- but the way Paul ogles him, his inhales and exhales coming fast and harsh, makes it seem like something miraculous.

Curious, Daryl keeps at it, watching Paul’s expression morph when he slows his hurry. The younger man seems entranced by Daryl’s mouth slobbering over his palm and fingers, squirming and twitching against Daryl’s groin as if he’s lost all control. And Daryl’s fairly certain he’s as beat-red as Paul looks, but he can still feel the heat in his face increasing.

Paul’s middle finger pops from his mouth with a wet smack.

“Good enough.”

His little ninja must agree because the next thing Daryl experiences is his throbbing cock being fitted tightly into the curve of Paul’s, both of them pressing inside a slick, steely, twisting squeeze.

The intensity of the moment screws his eyes shut, has him sinking flat teeth into the solid meat of Paul’s shoulder, has him whimpering like a damn dog thrown out of the house, begging without words or thoughts.

_More, more, more. Please, please, please. Paul, Paul, Paul._  

And Paul seems to bask in these broken sounds, chasing them with grunts and monosyllabic praises against graying stubble.

“Oh, shit-- Daryl, _fuck_ \--”

They rut against each other like they don’t know how to do anything else. Biting, pawing, growling. Arching, bucking, touching. But even with their frenetic pace and whining breaths, it’s the __tenderness__ behind each action that hits Daryl deep enough to enhance every second of what they’re doing. The gentle caresses, the lingering kisses left lovingly wherever Paul can reach, the tiny gasps stuttered into Daryl’s ear. They push him closer and closer to a cliff he’s not afraid of falling from.

“You’re-- you’re close?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daryl chokes out, refraining from adding the __I think__  because he doesn’t want to sound like an idiot. What else could the mounting pressure so low in his belly mean? He’s going to explode, one way or the other.

“Good. _God,_ that’s good.” Paul extends his elbow to hold his weight on one arm so he can look deep into Daryl’s eyes. He can’t explain the way Paul’s next words loop tight around his heart. “You’re so good. You’re amazing. I’m-- I’m close, too.”

“Yeah?”

_“Yeah,”_ Paul repeats. And there’s that damn laugh again, so beautiful it almost hurts. It does, in a sense, because Daryl has to bite his tongue to keep those exact words from spewing forth. “I want-- I want you to look at me, okay? When you come. I just--”

Daryl will do whatever Paul wants, no explanation needed, so he stops Paul from making one by craning his neck to engage him in a kiss much softer than the ones they’d been previously sharing. One of Daryl’s hands spreads across Paul’s lower back, the other combing through swaying hair to cradle the back of his head.

It’s here that he sees something change. Paul’s clouded eyes becoming piercing, reminding Daryl of their usual clarity but with a shine too different for him to name. His brows crease with an unnamed worry.

It takes Daryl more than a minute to understand that they’ve both stilled and then two minutes more to fathom the words that Paul speaks to him.

“I love you.”

He shouldn’t be surprised, really. Maybe he’d never thought those words directly, but he’d practically said as much those handful of months ago, when they’d laid out all their cards atop the RV’s roof. _I ain’t gonna feel like this for no one else and I ain’t gonna want no one else. You’re it for me._ Daryl had only meant one thing by that, the very thing Paul was saying to him now.

But hearing it is beyond what he could have imagined. Hearing it is a dream. It’s scary and unbelievable and it sends a warmth through him that tops all else.

Daryl throws his arms around Paul, shuddering when he feels the younger man relax into his embrace and sighs into his collarbone. Paul picks up from the speed they’d left off on, driving Daryl harder into the bed, cocooning him with spikes of raw intensity. He’s harder than he could ever be and he knows this is it, Paul’s sincerity -- _I love you _\--__  has really done him in.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

“Ah, fuck-- Paul!”

He levels himself above Daryl at the warning shout, one hand spreading across the torso heaving beneath him while the other works both of them closer to orgasm.

“I love you,” he says again, a reverent whisper to match the reverent gaze swallowing Daryl whole. “I love you so much. So fucking much. _Daryl_ \--”

He keeps eye contact with Paul as long as he’s physically able, but can only muster keeping his lids from squeezing shut only seconds after the first rush has him spilling over Paul’s hand and shooting across his own stomach.

Toes curl into rumpled sheets. Fists pound at trembling thighs. Seconds, long and blissful, pass him by in a blur. Consuming him.

Paul jerks his pulsing erection as he continues to come, that much Daryl’s aware of. And __shit__ , is it ever amazing, but he can’t sit idly by. He licks into Paul’s mouth once he regains control of his senses, trying to swallow down his own hiccuping whimpers as his cock continues to twitch under skillful ministration. He’s no longer aligned with Paul’s dick, which means he’s once again seeking pleasure by rocking against Daryl’s leg. That’s about to change.

Daryl bats Paul’s hand away from his balls and grabs hold of Paul’s cock instead. He tries to emulate what had been done to him, clumsily but hopefully effective in some sense.

_“Oh _\--__ Oh, shit. Please, _please _...”__ Paul babbles and arches his back, dipping forward to press his forehead to Daryl’s sweaty temple. His thrusts become wild, his groan barely louder than a sigh.

Paul seems to startle when Daryl takes hold of his balls, but then he stills and the whoosh of breath that fans across Daryl’s cheekbone sounds an awful lot like his name. His face scrunches and his biceps flex, strands of mussed hair sticking to the dewy spots on his face and neck. He claws at Daryl and doesn’t let go.

Hot and heavy and quivering, Paul unravels. His release joins Daryl’s on his stomach and shoots even farther up to paint his chest, orgasm at its peak as Daryl’s begins to fade into a buzzing afterglow. He doesn’t stop working Paul over inside his fist until the younger man collapses completely on top of him.

They’re left with cooling sweat and unsteady breaths, with overheated skin and fading desire and the lingering throes of pleasure he won’t forget.

The trailer is stifling. The dim light near the door isn’t helping, but Daryl can’t summon enough energy to get up and turn it off or to even push Paul over to his side of the bed. Besides, being able to count their heartbeats as they slow together is a reassuring comfort in a moment that has him at a loss for what to do next.

He doesn’t really know how long they stay like that, all tangled up and sticky, but Paul’s sudden stirring pulls him from a doze. The younger man rises from Daryl’s chest and flops onto his back on the remaining side of the bed. One of Paul’s arms drapes across his face.

Daryl doesn’t stare for long, instead turning his attention to the messy aftermath of their climax spread over his abdomen. He twists and bends just enough to snatch his shirt off the floor, wadding it up like he would a rag and then wiping it all away. A squint in Paul’s direction suggests he’s clean enough for now, so Daryl drops the soiled shirt and tries to relax.

He _can’t._

He’s boneless and exhausted, but thoughts pester his mind like a raging storm, keeping him from following the sleep he’d previously been chasing.

_I love you._

Well, _fuck._

It flashes through him, mind and body, warming his soul. Daryl knows just how many ways there are to say you care for someone, that you love them; little actions, unhurried words, longing glances. And he knows there are many types of love, too. What Daryl had told Paul in Leesburg was reciprocated, he hadn’t doubted that, but hearing it so plainly and in __just__  the way that had evaded him… He didn’t want to start guessing again.

“You mean it?”

He swallows the roughness in his throat, bringing his thumb up to his mouth. Through the corner of his eye, he spots Paul’s arm fall away, his head turning.

“What?”

“What you said. You, uh… you mean it?”

“That I love you? Yeah, of course. Daryl--” Paul taps Daryl’s arms with his knuckles, waiting for Daryl to look his way. When he does, Paul is soft eyed and open, and very clearly he states, “Yes. I love you.”

“S’not… I dunno, too soon or nothin’?”

The question sounds ridiculous to his own ears so Paul’s laugh is understandable, but it’s in no way patronizing. It’s not even amused.

“I don’t know what that means anymore,” he admits. “I don’t think it matters. I just know I won’t waste the time we __do__  have just because I’m worried about the time we won’t.”

“Hey--” Daryl turns onto his side, with Paul matching his position right away. He asks a question he already knows the answer to. “We’re in this for the long haul, right?”

Paul’s smile fills Daryl with a sense of contentment he’s only ever associated with the guy laying beside him.

“We are. I’m not afraid of committing to _you._ It’s the easiest thing in this world.”

“Then I ain’t afraid either. Ain’t gonna wait ‘til it’s too late.” He leans closer to Paul, contemplating dropping his head to the bare shoulder he presses his forearm against, ultimately deciding against it. The younger man’s pupils have shrunken, though his eyes are still as dark as midnight. The hint of blue his trained gaze catches is calming. “I love you back. Don’t matter how long it’s been or how long we got. Love you right back, y’know?”

“I know.”

The kiss that follows is short and sweet, but not without gravity or purpose. And Daryl can tell that, even if Paul did already know, hearing Daryl confirmation means just as much.

It’s well into the night, one that’s been paved by many unexpected accomplishments, and now Daryl can let it go. No more awkwardness, no more avoidance, and no more wondering. Now he knows, too.

They work the sheet up their naked bodies and wiggle far down into the coolness beneath.

“You gonna turn that light off?”

“I will,” Paul says, but he knows he won’t, not when Paul latches onto Daryl’s side and wraps an arm around his waist with one leg sliding carefully between two.

The lamp’s glow is nothing compared to what he feels nestled inside his chest.

* * *

 

It’s cold. His legs are tucked safely beneath the sheet and his back might as well be on fire, but his chest feels like an ice cube. Just one of the many reasons he never goes without clothing-- that and the fact that he could become walker chow at any minute and stopping to put on some pants would only enhance the process.

He’s relatively certain they’re safe enough for now.

Daryl blinks blearily through sleep-crusted eyes and tries to shimmy one of the blankets caught down by their feet up enough for him to grab. The angle’s all wrong with Paul glued to him, so the only thing he sees fit to do is reach up and over to flick an entirely too-enticing ear.

The flinch comes at about the same time as the groggily irritated groan, which is followed by Paul extricating himself from Daryl and turning over to face the other way. The sheet shifts with him, but it stays around Daryl’s waist well enough. With the fluffy cover tugged up around his shoulder, he scoots in close. Paul shivers when their bodies come into contact again and leans back into Daryl’s chest to seek warmth the same way Daryl does against his back.

“Better put some clothes on,” he murmurs now that he knows Paul’s more awake than he’d like to be. “Gonna end up sick lyin’ ‘round like this. S’fuckin cold in here.”

“You woke me up to tell me to get __dressed__? Go away.” Despite Paul’s grumpy order, his tightening hold on Daryl’s arm makes sure he can’t actually go anywhere. “You wore me out.”

“Shut up.” Daryl’s face starts to heat up at the tease, a sudden barrage of vivid memories from hours prior closing in fast.

“And I’d be a lot warmer if you got on top of me.”

He catches Daryl’s oncoming flick this time, twining their fingers together without even looking. It’s a move too fast for even Daryl to comprehend at first, one that probably has Paul smiling smugly against his pillow. But Daryl would bet his next deer that Paul couldn’t predict what will follow-- Daryl darting forward to nip sharply at the sensitive cartilage protruding from matted hair.

Paul’s laughter incites the same joy within himself. He chuckles into the curve between Paul’s neck and shoulder.

“Besides,” he continues, acting as if Daryl hadn’t just bitten him but failing to hide the mirth from his voice, “I’m not the only one without clothes here.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gettin’ up in a minute. Maybe go on a hunt. M’tired of buildin’ shit. You wanna go?”

It’s a spur of the moment idea that sounds like a master plan, a much needed break from the long stretch of time spent in and around Hilltop’s walls. He’s done making stables, it’s time for Daryl to do what he does best: hunt. And having Paul along, in Jesus mode or otherwise, always makes for a worthwhile outing.

Paul shifts against Daryl to turn on his back, looking up at him in curious consideration. Their hands are still joined and rest over the sheet barely covering his stomach.

“Do you want me to?”

The thing is… Daryl knows it’s a genuine question. Paul will let him go on his own if that’s what he wants, although he might come looking after a few hours of being left to his own devices, just because he can’t help himself. Daryl doesn’t need even a second of deliberation.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t.”

“Then I’ll go. I’ve been dying to stretch my legs, but first…” Daryl’s narrowed eyes gets Paul grinning like he’s got a secret. What he whispers makes it seem like he does. “Ten more minutes.”

“Hmm. Fine.”

Paul presses a kiss to Daryl’s chin, then to his jaw and neck, tracing a path he’d set the night before. But unlike _then_ , when it had started off sweet and ended as something else entirely, Daryl feels the intent and the impact right from the start. Of course it would be the guy who calls himself Jesus that makes Daryl want an immediate repeat performance of what he’d previously gone years without. _Of course_. But Daryl can’t bother with the quirks of his life when Paul’s shoving the covers away to be able to get his legs around Daryl’s hips. Being flush against him now feels somehow different _and_  similar at the same time.

“Are you okay with _this?”_

“You hear me complainin’?”

“No, but…” He sighs, holds Daryl’s shoulders like he doesn’t know if he should drag him closer or push him back. “I’d just like to be sure. A lot of things happened last night.”

Daryl resists the urge to groan.

Paul wants to _talk_  about it, what they did and what they said. Not surprising, but not really what Daryl had been hoping for. He’s learned from his past, from his mistakes, and he knows that sometimes trying to talk things out -- no matter how inarticulate he might be -- is usually a good thing. If he can muster the courage. Oddly enough, Daryl doesn’t feel the usual itch that tells him to bolt.

“Yeah, so? Was gonna happen one way or another. S’probably a good thing it ended up all at once.”

“How do you figure?” Paul inquires, brows furrowed in the way that tells Daryl he’s trying to figure out the answer before he even hears one.  

“We fucked around--” His nose scrunches at his own words, dissatisfied with how little they compare to what he feels, but Paul’s expression is only encouraging. “Never done that. Never wanted to, ‘cept with you. Then you said--”

“I love you.”

Paul finishes the sentence, repeating and reassuring. When Daryl ducks his head, Paul tilts it right back up, meeting him with vulnerable kindness.

“And I said it back. Now it’s all out there at once. We’re on the same page, synergy and shit, so wherever we go from here? S’gonna be easy. S’everythin’ else that’s hard.”

Daryl’s well aware that _he’s_  the one rambling now, an occurrence so rare that he can’t begrudge Paul for letting a couple giggles slip.

“Synergy?”

“You know what I mean. Hippie.”

“I do. And you’re right.” Threading a hand through the hair threatening to block Daryl’s eyes from view, he adds, “You know what else?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

Daryl knows his own heart and mind and nerves, but he knows Paul’s just as well and so it’s not lost on him how much those three little words truly mean. Hearing it, saying it; no reservations, completely self-assured. It’s a mountain they’ve both spent long hours climbing. Now that they’re at the top, instead of being afraid of the drop, he’ll do whatever it takes to enjoy it.

Softer than a whisper is Daryl’s reply.

“Love you, too.”

They meet in a heated kiss, prodding touches flitting over naked skin, bodies slotting together in a tight embrace. There’s no rush, but the sky’s alight with a new day, ordering that they get up now rather than later.

Paul’s arching hips seem to vote for later.

That pool of heat way, way down starts to churn.

“You said ten minutes.”

“How about I make a case for ten _more_  minutes?”

“You’re a lil shithead,” he rumbles, holding one of Paul’s thighs to his side.”

“Oh, _angel_ …”

They’re next kiss is rough, full of probing tongues and stuttering hands, scraping beards and rustling sheets, punctuated by quiet sighs of pleasure. Daryl doubts he can get it up in ten minutes, let alone _do_  anything within the allotted time, but Paul’s already going hard against his stomach and Daryl’s set on exactly what he wants to do with that information.

Unfortunately, a startling bang against their door stops them in their tracks.

“Jesus? Daryl?” _Bang, bang, bang._ “Guys, wake up!”

“Enid…?”

_Bang, bang, bang._

Daryl scrambles off of Paul as the younger man shoots up straight, swooping an arm down to grab at the clothes Daryl nearly slips on. He kicks away the shirt he’d used to clean himself the night before, yanks up his boxers, then jams his legs into wrinkled sweats. He reaches for the crossbow under the window on instinct just before he takes hold of the knob.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asks from behind Daryl’s shoulder once Enid is revealed.

Daryl’s gaze sweeps over the yard beyond, scanning for any threats or problems that may be the cause of panic. The only thing out of the ordinary is Andy up on the guard post when it should be Sasha.

“Enid, what is it?” Paul tries again when they receive no answer.

Gathering her breath and her wits, Enid blurts out the one thing they’ve all been waiting for.

“Maggie’s having the baby! She’s having the baby, she-- Glenn’s with her, and Alex, and Sasha-- I fell asleep in her room last night, she was showing me how to make a bracelet for the baby, like a gift -- but anyway,  she went to go get Dr. Carson as soon as we heard. And Glenn told me to come get you guys, so you have to hurry!”

_“Shit.”_

Daryl whirls around, ready to go searching for a shirt to throw on, but Paul shoves one into his arms before he can take another step.

The younger man is a flurry inside the trailer, darting back and forth to toss Daryl his vest and socks, kicking dirty boots towards the door all while trying to finish dressing himself. The only thing Daryl can help with is handing Paul his coat when he skids to a stop in front of the door, but it’s still Paul who offers Daryl his gun to holster and Paul again who ushers them out into the early morning cold.

Enid leads the charge towards Barrington several feet ahead of Paul and Daryl, who at least manage to keep pace with each other. They reach the big house in what feels like a couple of blinks, kicking through the halls like a trio of mini tornadoes. But when they slip into the room, nothing about the scene in front of them shows cause for alarm. Carson and Sasha had beaten them here, with the doctor standing by Alex and his cart of supplies near Maggie’s feet, and Sasha waiting in the corner with crossed arms and eagle eyes. Enid bounces by to join her, immediately mirroring her stance.

Maggie, her expression damp and pinched, is sat up in the bed and squeezing Glenn’s hand. It strikes Daryl how strangely _normal_ everything appears. Granted, Daryl’s never seen someone give birth before and the old room they’re standing in isn’t even close to looking like a hospital, but he finds the calmness odd. He has no clue what he should have been expecting, except maybe the whole thing turning into some crazy sideshow.

He hadn’t been there when Lil Ass Kicker came into the world, hadn’t been there to see Maggie cut Lori open, to see a mother have to say goodbye to her son in a way so few get to do these days -- for better or worse. He hadn’t been there, but Maggie had and still she and Glenn made the decision to bring new life into the world even at the risk of Maggie’s own. This was just the follow-through.

Maybe.

“You sure this ain’t another false alarm?”

“Well, I didn’t piss myself,” Maggie hisses, her breathlessness tinged with pain.

“She had contractions all night,” Glenn informs them while brushing short strands of hair from her sweating forehead. He’s frowning when he adds, “which she decided not to wake me about.”

“We’re not goin’ through this again, Glenn.”

“And then all morning,” he continues. “I left to grab some food when I got up, but when I came back she was doubled over like-- like something was happening!”

“Well, you weren’t wrong,” Carson replies casually, smiling tightly at Glenn. It slips away fast when he moves down to lift a towel from between Maggie’s legs. “The little guy’s definitely coming out today. You’re at ten centimeters already.”

“Thank God.” Maggie grunts and shifts, using Glenn’s frame to steady herself in an attempt to stand. When he tries to press her back down onto the mattress, she smacks his arm. “I wanna get up. I wanna stand or walk or somethin’. I can’t sit here anymore.”

“Okay. Okay, hold on--”

Daryl watches Alex help Glenn lift Maggie onto her feet, shifting his eyes away immediately when her bare bottom half is fully revealed. Paul, however, continues to stare; half curious and half concerned. Daryl doesn’t know if he’s seen a birthing before, either one of the few Hilltop has had or something from before, but it’s not really a question he needs an answer to.

“Do you need anything right now?” Paul asks with just the right amount of composure. “Food? Water? Some kind of distraction?”

That last one is more for Glenn, Daryl can tell, but he’s too busy watching every one of Maggie’s twitches to notice.

“More water.” She nods to the side table where a half-full glass and an empty plastic pitcher sit. “Maybe put some peanut butter on a few crackers? We still have some, right? And I know we have honey, you can squeeze some of that on top. And jam. Bread and jam.”

“What about you, Glenn?”

“I’m fine.”

“He ain’t fine,” Daryl whispers to Paul. Doctor Carson hears, as close as he is, and nods silently at the assessment. “Get ‘im a bucket or somethin’. Looks like he’s gonna blow.”

Paul’s nudge is an admonishment, but the set of his mouth is all hidden amusement. He grabs Daryl’s sleeve and tugs.

“If you think of anything else while we’re down the hall, send Enid or Sasha and we’ll get it for you.”

Before Paul turns them both towards the door, Daryl sees Maggie rest her head against Glenn’s shoulder, tension leaving both of their frames for the time being. Their matching smiles seem like a gift.

* * *

 

When Enid started gasping about Maggie going into labor, Daryl didn’t think he’d be pacing around for three hours just __waiting__  for something to happen. He can only imagine how she must feel-- On second thought, he really doesn’t want to.

Every passing second seems to up her pain, turning Glenn’s excitement into lip-trembling fear. He can’t do anything for her, not even Doctor Carson can. The only assurance they have is that everything’s on track.

“Breathe with me, Maggie. Okay? You’re the strongest person in this world. You can do this. _We_  can do this.”

Glenn places one of his wife’s hands on his chest, urging her to feel and follow the rise and follow. She does as he says, but the sudden sob that wracks through her catches them all off guard. Daryl’s shoulders hike up to his ears as unpleasant memories associated with the sound of Maggie’s tears smack him in the face.

“Maggie, will you try something for us?”

It’s Paul this time, leaving Daryl’s side to join Glenn at the edge of Maggie’s bed. She peeks up at the two of them with red cheeks and pursed lips, but with that gleaming defiance Daryl knows they’ve all come to expect from her in times of strife.

“We’ve done it before, a few weeks back. ” Paul continues. Daryl shuffles towards Enid and Sasha to watch the new interaction. “Focus on an image, remember? A place you’d like to be. A place that makes you happy.”

“I remember,” Maggie croaks. Glenn leans in closer, keeping his breaths even so that hers will be, too. “It was-- was my daddy’s farm. Like it was before.”

“So you’re on the farm, right? Are you there now?”

Maggie’s eyelids flutter shut and she swallows hard, inhaling and exhaling a handful of times.

“I’m there.”

“And who’s with you?”

“Everyone. My daddy and Beth--” Daryl ducks his head, chews on his lip. “Glenn. Enid and and Sasha. You, Daryl, Michonne, Rick, Aaron, Tara, Carol, Abraham…”

“What’re we doing?” Glenn wonders. The list of names they cherish could go on and on, but his intrigue lies within what else her imagination unfolds.

“It’s a picnic. You’re holding our boy and my dad’s tellin’ you stories from when I was a growin’ up. Beth’s singin’ and Enid’s dancin’ with Carl, and Jesus is over by the barn with Daryl--”

Daryl looks up, meeting Paul’s raised brow with a little shake of his head. But Daryl’s starting to picture what Maggie’s describing, too. The farm as it was when it sheltered them, before the walkers overtook it and the fire forced them to flee. The people they’d lost and mourned, gathered around as they should be, celebrating life with new appreciation.

One glance at Sasha tells Daryl that, whatever it is that’s flashing through her mind, it’s as bittersweet as Daryl’s visions.

Paul’s line of questioning is taken over by Glenn fairly quickly, the imagined happenings of Maggie’s supposed _happy _place__  -- whatever the hell that is -- keeping him firm for not just her, but himself as well. He listens to her descriptions, aids them forward in between mutual wincing. Before they know it, the _what-if’s_  that can never be slowly fade into whispers of the tomorrow they know they’ll get.

Daryl leaves the room with Paul at his side, shoulders bumping in their aimless amble through the hall.

The kitchen’s empty when they enter again. The jars of jam, bottles of milk, and baskets of eggs are all put in their proper places now rather than scattered around like they had been when they’d rummaged around inside earlier, however. But they’re here for themselves now.

Daryl takes the bread Paul offers him without complaint and tears into it immediately. Paul seems too thoughtful to do much more than nibble on a slice of his own.

He needs to go out and do something to help, to mark more shit off of Maggie’s ever growing list. She and Glenn will probably need even more help and support than they can get here, which suddenly reminds him--

“We should get Rick, at least go tell ‘em it’s happenin’.”

“Is that what you wanna do?”

“Yeah.” The hunt he’d been talking about earlier has definitely been postponed for another day, but they’ve still got time enough for a trip to Alexandria and back. “They’d wanna be here.”

“I think you should wait.”

They turn their heads towards Sasha as she steps through the door to lean back against the wall opposite Daryl. He crosses his arms at her comment.

“For what?”

“For the baby to be _born,_ first of all. None of us have been talking about it, but that silence doesn’t erase what we know could happen.”

“Wait, did Harlan say something?”

“No.” She’s quick to reply to Paul’s inquiry, easing his concerns while fueling Daryl’s. “It’s been smooth for a while, but don’t forget where we are, what this world does. What it _takes_.”

“They’re family,” Daryl argues. “And you’re the one makin bracelets.”

Sasha sighs. It’s only when she reaches up to fiddle with the chain hanging around her neck, pulling out a jagged red piece of plastic to hold onto that Daryl realizes what exactly she’d started wearing these last few months, something that had belonged to Abraham.

Despite Sasha’s negativity, or maybe __in__  spite of it, she still possesses the sentimentality that led to her wearing Bob’s jacket so long after he’d been gone.

“I can be optimistic,” she says after an awkward beat. “I _wanna_ be. This is the future. But just think about it. If you bring everyone here, even the people we love, and something went wrong? It’d just be another spectacle. Maggie needs some peace, some time to herself with Glenn and her son before everyone starts gathering around. __And__ ,” she adds, a genuine smile forming over her hardened features, “I know you wanna be one of the first to hold that baby, Daryl. Jesus told me you’ve been hiding toys for months.”

Daryl sniffs, a little put off by the sudden shift in subject. He shoots a sideways glare towards Paul.

_“Jesus_  don’t know what the hell he’s talkin’ ‘bout.”

“Oh, so you want me to believe you got a cute little stuffed cow for yourself? I mean, I won’t judge… much.”

“I don’t need a cow when I got fuckin’ jackass right here,” he grumbles, making Paul cover a grin with his hand.

Sasha’s shoulders shake with laughter.

“Oh my God. Please--”

“You guys?”

Enid pops her head in through the door, stealing their attention. Daryl’s grateful for that, at least. But her expression is a little worrisome.

“What happened?” Sasha turns from the wall to asks. She pulls back the door to usher her in, but the girl stays back, practically buzzing on the spot.

“Doctor Carson’s having her push now. Maybe you should come back in?”

They follow Enid without another word, but only the two girls enter into the the grunt-filled room. Daryl parks himself outside and Paul follows suit, though he stands closer to the doorway to peer inside.

He hears Carson’s instructions alongside Maggie’s cries, telling her to push while he counts to ten, then making sure she breathes in deep before going again; hears Glenn echo these orders with little encouragements tacked on, Sasha and Alex agreeing every so often. Daryl needs to pace or head out to grab Rick and Michonne like he wanted, needs to do _something,_ but everything happening beyond the doorway keeps him in place.

It’s a surreal odd moment when his position brings him back to his days at the prison, when they’d stormed Woodbury and found Andrea at her end. He’d heard the shot from outside the doorway in a moment he knew was coming but flinched at anyway, an instance -- one of many -- that had changed them all. And in a crooked way paved from knots tied by anyone and everyone they’d shared even a minute with, what was happening beyond a fancy old wall was similar. Maggie having a baby is a product of choice and then of action. Of reaction. Like then. Like now.

They can end life, but they can create it, too. And it’s _that_  thought that sticks with Daryl far longer than he’d think.

“Maggie! Maggie, I see his head!”

“Oh, _God._ Glenn--”

“Another push, Maggie. He’s right here. Push and breathe.”

Daryl whips his head around, dragged out of thoughts that make his head ache. He’s pulled bodily forward by Paul a few steps into the room to join the small crowd gathered around Maggie’s bed.

Her husband’s on the left, Sasha on the right, the two of them holding her spread thighs as she exerts herself. Carson sits low on a stool, hunched over with his arms jostling as he tries to pull at tiny shoulders that rest beneath a lumpy head. And that’s new, even with Glenn announcing it the way he had. The first thing Daryl thinks is that the little guy already has a full head of dark hair, as matted with goo and blood as it is. The second thing he thinks is _holy shit._

“One more,” Carson tells her quickly. “One more, come on--”

Within seconds Alex is helping Carson draw the baby the rest of the way out, depositing him onto the towel laid out across Maggie’s chest. Glenn’s eyes about bug out of his head and his mouth fall s opens in stunned silence. The pained gasps Maggie had been emitting cease, replaced by happy whimpers that fall from a broad grin.

_“Maggie,”_ Glenn whispers.

“I know.” She nuzzles into his hand when he brushes her cheek, but never lifts her touch from her little guy’s stomach and arm. “I know, I know…”

He’s cooed at from all angles, jiggled around during Alex’s attempt at cleaning him off. Enid comments about how cute he is, which Daryl thinks will probably be true once the puffiness in his face subsides and he gets some color on his pale skin, or maybe just once he opens his eyes.

Daryl hadn’t paid much attention to Judith until she was at least a couple days old, but he remembers when he’d first held her and how, looking down at her, he figured there’d never be anything as sweet. Paul was on a different level, that smug bastard, so Daryl ended up being right… until now. Staring down at Glenn and Maggie’s newborn has him re-experiencing the odd emotions that meeting Judith had first instilled in him.

Then the crying begins. Ear piercing wails that start and stop like hiccups that have his parents beaming like it’s the best sound in the world. Sasha must think so, too, because when Daryl glances over at her he sees none of the caution she’d been trying to exude in the kitchen. In its place is a teary-eyed smile that reminds Daryl of a hard mission being won. And Daryl can’t do more than assume, but the way she clutches the necklace makes it seem like Abraham had seen it through with her in some way.

The squalling continues, cutting into Glenn and Maggie’s gentle whispers. Alex tries to wipe all the gunk off the baby’s skin as unobtrusively as he can, getting wrapped up into answering Sasha’s line of questioning despite not yet having any answers about Baby Rhee’s health. Enid takes a more proactive approach by getting down low, placing her chin on Maggie’s shoulder, trying to take count of all the little fingers and toes. It makes Paul chuckle under his breath.

Daryl finds himself smiling-- at Paul, at the warming quiet the room settles into, at the little baby pissing all over Alex’s arms, at the adoration taking over Maggie’s entire being even as Carson urges her for one final push. Glenn needs to be assured that the bloody pile of mush falling out of his wife is, indeed, just a normal placenta. It’s a resurfacing of the Glenn Daryl had first met, the young pizza boy who’d do anything to help anyone no matter the risk or trepidation, that gets Daryl laughing quietly like Paul had seconds prior. The new father joins him quickly, a jubilant chortle that sweeps everyone else fully into his joy.

The soft, happy sounds seem to jump-start the baby into action, encouraging him to start twitching against Maggie. His head lolls, fingers curling, mouth shifting with little gurgles that resemble aborted cries. Daryl can see those tiny lids start to shift repeatedly, eventually revealing wet, dark eyes that dart around without focus in between slow blinks. His wrinkly hands rub at his own cheek and ear, and the way he rolls his neck makes his head press into the curve of the hand Maggie uses to caress his hair, an unintentional nuzzle that elicits a multitude of cooing.

When the baby looks at Daryl -- unseeing, unaware, but wide-eyed for a short few seconds -- his thoughts immediately cave into _yeah, alright, the little sucker_ is _cute._

He catches Paul’s gaze and holds it, and they communicate with mutual nods that it’s time to go, to give Glenn and Maggie and their _child_ the space Sasha had mentioned; even if it’s just from them, even if it’s just for as long as it takes to get to Alexandria and back. They deserve some privacy.

 

Daryl starts over for the trailer once they step out into the daylight. A tug on his vest makes him turn around to face Paul and the key he dangles.

He’s quietly impressed by Paul’s foresight, but shakes his head at the gesture.

“Bike’s faster than your shitbucket.”

Paul’s blank stare is rather effective in its portrayal of annoyance, so much so that Daryl can’t decide if he’s faking or not.

“What if they have something we need to bring back?”

“We ain’t goin’ for a trade.”

“That never stops Aaron from having supplies for us.”

“So I’ll get a bag.” He takes another step towards their trailer.

“Oh, I know what _that_  means. I’m not your pack mule, Dixon. But I’ve got a solution.”

“Dunno if I wanna hear it,” Daryl teases, but it’s Paul who gets the real laugh when he puts the key back into his pocket and pulls out another, this time the one for his bike.

Clever asshole.

Paul doesn’t need prompting to state his piece.

“How about _I_  drive and _you_  carry the haul. You’ve got the shoulders for it…”

Daryl rolls said shoulders and even as covered as they are, they draw Paul’s gaze like a magnet, long enough for him to yank the keys out of his loose grasp. Paul merely grins.

“You ain’t drivin’,” Daryl says, but with the key digging into his palm and those big eyes staring him down with a hypnotizing shine he’s inclined to add, “Maybe next time.”

* * *

 

There’s nothing stifling about his bike.

Motorcycles had always been Merle’s thing, or so his big brother liked to think. Mostly just riding them, he’d never cared about the mechanics of it all or the way it could make you feel. _Free_. But it had always been about status for Merle -- well, as much status as a fucking redneck from backwoods Georgia could get. It made him look like something he wasn’t, made the neighbors fear and respect him, made a bunch of bimbos flock around like he could give them more than a mildly good time.

Merle’s stupid club, _Savage Sons,_ was nothing but wannabe Hell’s Angels and all that shit. Daryl had hung around them so rarely that no one, not even Merle, considered him a member, which was fine by him. The “occasional fuck-up” didn’t need to be turned into a full-time thing, so he stayed away. Mostly. But not from the bikes.

He hadn’t had one of his own, of course. And Daryl only ever got away with riding Merle’s when the bastard was passed out somewhere, more often than not in his own puke or in a jail cell, sometimes even both. But whenever he got the chance, Daryl __loved__  it. He loved it in a way that he’d never loved anything, not unless he was drunk off his ass, and even then it was fleeting enjoyment of one thing or another. He’d loved his brother, that was and always would be true, but there were times when he’d hated him almost as much as he’d hated their daddy. Motorcycles never made him feel that way. They never made him mad or sad or scared. They _freed_  him from all that shit.

Then the end of the world happened and he got the bike when he lost Merle, the first time and the last. It became _his,_ it became part of him. The apocalypse came and Daryl realized that he’d only needed three things: his bike, his bow, his vest. It was a sentiment that had been proven wrong as time went on and people started becoming the most important resournce, when __the group__  started becoming __family__ , when relationships shackled him and yet _freed_  him just as well as any ride down a country road could.

The bike had lost the essence of what it had once meant to him. Riding became _only_  about getting one place to the next. Freedom didn’t mean so much when you didn’t know how many more days you’d be surviving. And when every win comes with triple the loss, you lose all sense of what the little things should mean and why they should matter most.

It matters now, after all they’ve been through. He’d spent so much time thinking the dust would never settle that he never realized it already had, many times, and it would continue to do so many more. He’s allowed to enjoy things as they come, a lesson that had been presented to him over and over again; by Rick and Michonne, Glenn and Maggie, Abraham, Beth, Hershel, Bob, Carol, Paul…

And on some days -- days like this one, as good as it could possibly get -- Daryl will let himself go with it. He’ll love his bike, the way it feels to ride the empty roads with the wind whipping his face, roaring past dead-heads that are too slow to even hit the dust his wheels kick. He’ll love Paul and the happiness he brings him, the good humor and affection and new experiences. He’ll love his family in all its incarnations, new and old, in good times and bad.

Daryl slows his speed once they start on the familiar road, squinting behind the shades protecting his eyes the closer they get to the walls. He catches only a brief glimpse of the guard up top before the figure disappears, the gate sliding open as he rolls to a stop. He revs the engine, as a signal but also just because he can, and leans back a few inches. Paul’s arms tighten around his waist.

Gabriel appears before them, priest collar around his neck and a rifle slung over his shoulder, smiling serenely. Daryl takes his welcoming nod as encouragement to rocket forward into the depths of Alexandria.

The ignition cuts a minute or two later and then hits the kickstand with his heel and leans both of their weight to the side, keeping his boot against the asphalt to allow Paul the first dismount. He does so without issue, graceful with every step, while Daryl follows with practiced ease.

“Daryl! Jesus!”

He pulls the shades from his face, the afternoon sun promptly blinding him, and turns towards Rick’s voice. The corners of his mouth quirk at the sight of his brother’s bow-legged swagger coming straight for him. Michonne follows Rick at a casual pace with a gleaming smile.

The leader’s on Daryl in an instant, wrapping him up in a cheerful embrace. He moves on to clasp hands with Paul, leaving Michonne to reach for Daryl next.

“Everything alright?” Rick asks with obvious worry “You didn’t bring a truck, so you’re not here for a trade. And we got Aaron out on a run with Rosita already--”

“Everything’s fine,” Paul answers, presenting his hands in a calming gesture. The look he shoots Daryl is a question of who should give the news. “We wanted--”

“Maggie had the baby.”

The younger man’s arms cross at Daryl’s outburst. Rick and Michonne blink in unison.

“What--”

“You’re sure--”

“There weren’t any complications with the birth,” Paul assures. “We left before Dr. Carson checked him over, but it seemed like everything was alright. He cried, opened his eyes, has all his fingers and toes… I don’t think any of us could stop smiling.”

“And Maggie?” Rick’s elated expression doesn’t waver, but the creases in his forehead deepen. “She-- she got through it alright? She--”

“Couldnd’t’ve been better.”

Daryl meets Rick’s gaze and holds it. He can’t forget the day Maggie stumbled out into the courtyard of the prison, holding Lil Asskicker to her trembling chest while Carl stood stoically, Rick breaking down around them at the realization that he’d just lost Lori. Michonne had been that needle for him, knitting the Grimes family back together once she’d entered the fray, mending the gaps distorted by pain. Glenn and Maggie had done the same for each other, same as Abraham and Sasha, for a time. It’s what Ezekiel was doing for Carol, what Paul was doing for Daryl, what Eric had always done for Aaron. Support, not replace. Heal in new ways, but not erase.

Rick had moved on from Lori, but he’d never forget. And even as Daryl’s words absolve the tension that the news of Maggie _finally_  giving birth had generated, he’ll be reliving the memory for a while. Michonne placing her hand in Rick’s is a start in easing the way.

“Daryl!” Carl’s deepened voice calls out to them, interruption the thick silence by carrying past rows of trees and frankenstein houses. The soles of his sneakers slap against concrete on his jog over.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Carl knocks elbows with Daryl with a crooked grin, shaggy hair falling over his bandage from beneath his hat. “Jesus, hey. What’re you guys doing here? Enid didn’t come?”

Daryl snorts while the other three stifle their laughter at Carl’s lack of subtlety.

“Nah, your little girlfriend wanted to spend time with Glenn and Maggie.”

Side-eyeing Paul, the younger man gladly adds, “And the new baby.”

The teen’s eyes go wide, reminding Daryl of how young he’d looked when he’d first met him.

_“What?_  They’re okay? Dad, we’re going, right? Come on! We have to--”

“Yeah, we’re goin’. Calm down. Say by to your sister and tell Tara the good news.”

Carl runs back to the house he came out of, stopping only once to snatch up the hat the wind blows off his head. Michonne shakes her head fondly.

“I’ll get the keys. You--” a finger presses into Rick’s chest, tracing a slow trail down to his stomach, “can round up the rest of the pack.”

Rick watches her go for perhaps a little too long, letting an awkward silence settle between Paul and Daryl as they watch Alexandria’s leader stare after Michonne’s retreating form. He shows no shame when he turns back around. Before Paul, who’s curling mouth and quirking brows, can start asking after the obviously good state of Rick and Michonne’s relationship, which Daryl knows is a quick ticket for Rick to harp on Daryl’s _own_  now that he’s got one, he quickly intercedes.

“You ain’t bringin’ Judith?”

“She’s got some kind of head thing goin’ on. Could be the flu. But it’s not much to worry about.” _It’s not like at the prison,_ Daryl thinks he means to say.

Paul’s offer of loaning Alex to Alexandria for a few days to monitor Judith is appreciated but ultimately declined. Rick brushes an unruly curl from his face and sighs.

“She was already doin’ better this morning, I know she’ll be fine, I just don’t wanna take the chance of makin’ it worse from exposure. I got Tara watchin’ her for now, but I have a feelin’ she’ll wanna come with us. Why don’t the two of you go pay her a visit? I gotta scrounge up a new sitter…”

With Rick heading one way and Daryl and Paul heading the other, he takes the time too observe the progress Alexandria has made these last near five months. It’s coming along better than he’d expected, the difference from even his previous visit drastically noticeable. The large houses that remain standing look out of place alongside the clusters of cabins beginning to form around and in place of debris left from the fiery war. A lot has happened in his absence and without his help, but Daryl’s been busy in his own right. Besides, Alexandria looks as if it’s doing just fine.

Maybe he misses it a little bit.

Carl bolts out the door again, leaving it open for the duo when he sees how close they are, continuing to run down the main street of the community without anything more than a wave.

Paul steps through the threshold of the house. His head turns to take in his surroundings while Daryl follows at his heels. A clatter from the kitchen meets their entrance and the unmistakable exasperation of Tara’s voice trails after it.

“Okay, you don’t like airplanes. Note taken. But now it’s your turn to learn something, so are you listening? You __eat__  food, Judith. Not flip it. Okay? Just… just eat it. Please? I know it’s really just broth, but that’s kind of a delicacy around here. You’ll learn. But for now you need to eat this and then go to sleep, have sweet dreams, feel better, yadda-yadda. I’ve got another baby to go see! _Judith_ \--”

The same clatter sounds, only louder this time and accompanied by a sharp cry. Daryl can just make out Tara’s hissed cursing below it.

“Or not. That’s fine, too. I’m sure the floor’s hungrier than you are.”

Judith continues to make herself heard with distressed shrieks interspersed with crackling coughs and shallow breaths. There’s no threat of walkers being called by the noise, but it makes Daryl’s insides seize nonetheless.

He and Paul step around the corner and are met with Tara trying to soothe the little girl, who scowls and flails and refuses to cooperate. Her very first cold doesn’t seem to be settling well.

“Oh, hey,” Tara greets, her own distress made clear by her deer-in-the-headlights expression. “Any tips on how to calm an angry baby? Meghan used to like lullabies, but I’m gonna go ahead and guess that whatever’s Rick’s got lying around would not be pleasing to little ears.”

“Or _any_ ears,” Daryl grumbles, mostly to himself. He winces when Judith starts trying to wiggle out of Tara’s hold.

“You could try singing to her,” Paul suggests, although for once it appears as if he’s not actually trying to be helpful, which Tara seems to not appreciate.

“Or, you know, _you_  could.”

“Not likely.”

Daryl eyes him for a moment, tempted to ask if Paul _can_  sing, maybe even goad him into a demonstration -- purely for Judith’s sake, of course, and not for Daryl’s own amusement. He decides against it when Paul grabs a burping rag from the chair and bends to clean the mess they’d heard Judith make, successfully shutting himself and the idea out of bounds. Unfortunately, Tara takes the suggestion to heart.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star--”

“Stop. You wanna make it worse?”

She glares.

“What I want is to strangle you with a yo-yo. And to stop Judith’s crying, I guess.”

“Here. Gimme.”

Daryl gestures for Judith to be handed to him, which Tara does without an ounce of hesitation. He tries to settle her into a comfortable position in his arms, held as close to his chest as can be without crushing her, and then begins to sway. Her cheeks are tear-stained, her nose as red as Rudolph’s, her bottom lip trembling, but the cries start to fade away when her developing brain realizes something has changed. When she opens her eyes to squint up at the face hovering above hers, the recognition of is Daryl as instantaneous as the reaction.

Immediate silence, like picking a needle up off a record, descends upon them, replaced in seconds by sniffles and inquisitive babbling. He wipes the wetness from her face with the pad of his thumb.

“You good now? Got it all out?”

Judith doesn’t really know what he means, but his voice is enough of a comfort to her; old and yet fresh, almost like a toy she keeps losing and then always finds again. A constant, _somehow_ Never forgotten.

The reactions from his two companions are a little more varied. Paul, who has gathered himself from the floor, now stands with his arms secured loosely over his chest, observing Daryl soothing the little girl so intensely that he might be trying to take mental pictures of the scene. The best course of action is to ignore him and his softened features, or risk becoming embarrassingly distracted otherwise. Daryl can’t, however, ignore the contentment seeping into every nook and crannie inside his chest.

Tara’s excitement over Judith’s renewed calm is practically tangible.

“That’s awesome. You’re great! I’m sure you can get her to sleep too, right? I mean, between the both of you-- one of which is named Jesus, I might add… ”

She’s backing towards the entryway as she speaks, not wanting to give Daryl or Paul a chance to decline but still moving slow enough so that they _could._ He knows the only reason she’s so eager to leave is so she can see Glenn and Maggie, to meet their baby, the newest member of their family. Daryl can’t say he exactly minds spending some time with his Lil Asskicker, especially not with his other little asskicker -- this one of the ninja variety -- standing beside him.

“Yeah, go on then.”

Judith wiggles against Daryl, trying her best to get a glimpse of Tara before she leaves. Her attention is veered off in another direction when Paul sidles up to her. She then twists to stare up at the long-haired ma, reaching out with chubby fingers eager to grab hold of the fascinating beard as soon as he drops his head down. She giggles when Paul peppers kisses into her wild curls.

“Think you can get her to eat?” Paul murmurs. He looks up into Daryl’s face from even lower than usual with Judy’s grubby hands twisting into any and all of the hair that’s presented to her.

Daryl shrugs noncommittally, but they both know he’ll always be ready for a challenge.

* * *

 

Triumphing over Judith’s flu-induced tantrums comes at the cost of getting covered in mashed sweet potatoes and cooling tomato soup. She’d burped up some of it, all across the front of his clean shirt, but baby puke is nothing compared to all the shit Daryl’s smelled like over the years.

Paul ignores the spittle and takes Judith from Daryl’s arms. He’s focused on making sure Paul won’t drop her when things go momentarily dark when, a towel tossed over the top of his head a clear instruction to clean up. The fear was irrational in the first place, he doesn’t doubt Paul’s better at handling little humans better than he is, but it’s an instinct nonetheless. He’s not really sure when or where he picked that up. He just cares too damn much these days, but looking at Paul -- his tongue stuck out at the little girl in his arms, making funny faces until she laughs in between sneezes -- makes Daryl sure he wouldn’t change it even if he could.

“Special delivery!”

There’s no knocking, which is understandable when Daryl sees what Eric’s hands are holding: plates piled high with what looks like pounds of pasta. It’s enough to make Daryl’s mouth water, which he figures Eric, the smirking little bastard, already knows.

“What’s so special ‘bout it?”

“That I’m the one delivering it, obviously.”

His smile is sunny as he closes in on them, hobbling all the way…

_That_  makes Daryl snort in disbelief.

“You do anythin’ ‘sides hurt yourself?”

“Apparently I cook you great food,” Eric deadpans, handing Daryl’s plate over with a semi-glare. “And get drunk off cheap wine when Aaron leaves and I can’t go with him. But alas, there shall be no drowning of sorrows tonight, or at least not until Rick gets back. It’s my turn to babysit.”

“They left, then?”

Eric nods at Paul and grabs for Judith from, replacing the toddler with his own plate of food.

“And so can you guys, once you finish eating. Though knowing how much of a bottomless pit Daryl is, I’m sure he’ll be pushing you to the gate in no time.”

Daryl slurps extra loud just for that. But he takes his time and settles himself onto a stool at the counter, glancing over at the little round table pushed into the corner every so often once Eric and Paul move to occupy it. Judith whines with discontent.

“Oh, and Aaron’s been hoarding some stuff in the garage for you guys.”

“He has, huh?”

Ignoring the very pointed look Paul tosses his way, Daryl pretends to be uninterested in the conversation in favor of devouring his food.

“You should see all the junk he found on the last run. Aaron always thinks he has to provide for _everyone _…__  It’s one of those things I hate to love about him, but love to love at the same time. But anyway, the garage is open so you can check it out before you leave. It’s the best of the best for Hilltop’s greatest warriors, I promise.”

Daryl’s fork clinks against the plate, his chair scrapes against the floor when he stands and pushes away from the counter. His sleeve, already stained with Judith’s lunch, becomes a napkin.

“Tell ‘im thanks.”

“Yeah, please.” Paul nods, places his own fork down on the table rather than on top of the stray noodles still present in his dish. “And thank you for the food, too. We appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem. I need something to do when I can’t go off playing action hero with my boyfriend and cooking’s a pretty good time killer. But, uh, let Maggie know I’ll be by with Aaron as soon as he gets back, will you? It’ll give her some time to prepare for the onslaught of photos I know he’ll want to take. The amount of disposable cameras he’s got shoved under our bed is pretty ridiculous.”

Judith’s whines escalate the longer they sit around yapping, cluing them all in on her desire to do _anything_ else, like perhaps _sleep._ Daryl once again takes her into his arms and mumbles a few words of assurance to Eric that __yes__ , he’s sure he’d like to do this. While saying goodnight isn’t really the same as saying good _bye,_ it’s good enough. That soft spot he has deep down makes sure he knows it.

Judith’s bedroom is small and sparse, the only real pieces of furniture being a crib, a chair, and a small nightstand. Toys and books are strewn across a floor that’s covered by a thread-bare rug. Drawings litter the walls, held up by tape and tacks, the subjects on each scrap of paper drawn by varied hands.

The finger painted scribbles are obviously Judith’s and Daryl suspects that the ones made up of elegant lines, mostly depicting geometric shapes -- and cat after cat after cat -- are from Michonne. He assumes the others belong to Carl and Rick, maybe even Tara if the dinosaur wearing sunglasses is a sign. They’re all pretty shitty, but they give Judith something nice to look at and experiences to help shape her where memories can’t quite start to form. Daryl hopes she’ll have many more days to do nothing but sit around and color with the people who love her most.

But the only thing she needs right now is to take a nap.

Daryl barely sets her inside the crib when Paul tilts his head in the way Daryl knows to mean he’s thinking unnecessary thoughts.

“I don’t think she’ll fall asleep just because you’re putting her in a crib. She’s cranky. Maybe we should read to her?”

“’Kay, then do it.”

“Me? Why don’t _you_  read this time, Daryl?”

He scowls at the suggestion, but any protests he attempts to make get drowned out by Paul raising his voice excitably.

“Do you want Uncle Daryl to read you a story, Judith? You want a story before sleepy-time, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah!”

“See? I bet it’ll make her feel better. Here, I’ll find one. Wouldn’t wanna strain you too much…”

Paul crosses the small room and bends down to the pile of books and toys scattered near the crib. Daryl lifts Lil Asskicker back up and out, shifting weight from one side to the other, then bouncing her slightly. He’s resigned to his fate already. These two trouble makers are going to make him read a book for babies, out loud, to his brother’s kid because the dumbass he’s in love with _wants_  him to. What a fucking sap he’s become.

A deep chuckle from across the room has Daryl tearing his eyes from the splotchy-faced toddler to look questioningly at what could be amusing Paul. The book the younger man thrusts at him -- _Pat the Bunny_  -- is unfamiliar. Paul doesn’t wait for him to say as much.

“Do you like this one?” he asks a wide-eyed Judith while taking her from Daryl’s grasp; an exchange of the baby for the book. “It’s about me and you.”

Daryl’s expression twists, although he doesn’t question Paul’s bizarre statement. He curls his fingers around the tattered spine and drops down beside Paul onto the frayed rug. The younger man situates Judith into his lap. Daryl glances between the tattered cover and the softness of Paul’s face, quietly enjoying the wince brought on by the little girl’s curious fingers tugging at his hair.

“Are you ready?” He uses the same upbeat tone he’d been addressing Judith with, but the question is mostly aimed at Daryl, who grunts in reply and shoves open the front cover.

He’s met with simple words on one side and a simple drawing on the other. A boy and a girl. Paul and Judy, the left reveals upon a second evaluation. His shoulders drop and his eyes roll, and when he looks up he sees his little ninja’s face alight with a silent snicker, as well as Lil Asskicker’s grumpy pout. Daryl grits his teeth.

“Here’re Paul and Judy,” he grumbles, just loud enough to where Paul can’t ask for a repeat. “They can do lotsa things. You can do lotsa things, too.” What the fuck. He turns the thick cardboard page. “Judy can pat the bunny. Now you pat the bunny.”

There’s fake, matted fur inside the outline of a rabbit to go along with the nauseating words. Paul knows this and reaches out to tug the book slightly forward, drawing his finger across the softness and urging Judith to do the same. She sneezes and then taps at the page, mostly hitting Paul’s hand rather than the intended target, but she giggles anyway.

“Judy can play peek-a-boo with Paul,” Daryl reads next. Teeth scrape his bottom lip when the smaller man turns Judith around to look up at him, covering his face without having to hear the prompt. He blocks himself from sight for a few short seconds, sliding his hands away as if they were opening doors. He widens his already round eyes comically, full lips shifting into a perfect O, and his voice pitches unnaturally higher when he coos “peek-a-boo!” Judith shrieks like she had at the first cue and imitates Paul without a second thought, already familiar with the ancient game. The only difference is that, when she reveals __her__  face, she can only squeal out a loud “BOO!” It’s disgustingly cute. Daryl clears his throat.

“Paul can smell the flowers.” That declaration has his little ninja smiling serenely. “Now you smell the flowers.”

When Daryl starts to go to the next page, Paul stops him.

“Wait, we have to smell the flowers. That’s what the book said.”

“Smell!”

Even with Judith’s insistence, Daryl huffs.

“You see any flowers in here?”

“Yes. Right there--” Paul taps the squiggly lines and pale colors inside the book, the crinkles around his eyes becoming more pronounced when Daryl starts to frown.

But Judith’s wiggling fingers urge him to hand the object over, allowing her the privilege of smashing her nose against the cardboard’s must as if something real would suddenly come through. Paul laughs. Then, mercifully, he takes a turn for the next few sentences, adding much more gusto than Daryl had managed to provide.

“Judy can look in the mirror. Now you look in the mirror! Can you see yourself?”

Judith does as she’s instructed once Paul shows her the shiny circle embedded into the new page. Her mouth drops open while she stares at her slightly distorted reflection, witnessing tired eyes and messy blond curls the way Daryl and Paul do. She tilts her head a few times, swaying back and forth against Paul, but then waits for something new to happen when she can’t figure out she has control over what the mirror shows her. She’s obliged immediately, the spoiled little thing.

Paul flicks his gaze up to Daryl when he says, a tad quieter, “Judy can feel Daryl’s scratchy face. Now you feel Daryl’s scratchy face!”

And it’s Paul who follows the book’s instructions first this time, shifting Judith so he can teeter forward to press his fingertips against Daryl’s jaw. He caresses the stubble there, going so far as to thumb over the mole near his mouth, making Daryl’s eyes droop reflexively. He lingers even when Judith squirms to get a chance to touch his familiar face, too. She turns out to be less gentle, smacking a fist against Daryl’s chin repeatedly and then squawking when his scruff bristles against her soft skin. Daryl doesn’t hide his chuckle. In fact, he teases Judith by grabbing her arm to hold it against his face, nodding his head to pester her with that rough, tickling feeling he knows she’s used to from Rick. Her laughter brings on a fit of shallow coughs, but he knows it’s worth it, especially when he notices the tenderness Paul suddenly regards him with. It’s nothing new, it just never fails to feel that way. It brings a pleasant flush to the back of his neck. Paul’s smile is small and intimate when he continues on for the slumping girl tucking herself against his stomach.

“Judy can read her book. Now you read Judy’s book. Ready?” There are little flaps on the page that the younger man starts to turn, revealing another rabbit and several words that are printed too small for him to see from where he sits. “Hear the tick-tock, bunny? How big is bunny? Soooooo big! Say big, Judith, okay? Big!”

“Bi… big. Bi…”

“Bunny is eating a good supper-- like the one you ate earlier, remember? But shh, bunny is sleeping!”

At the mention of sleep, Daryl notices that Judith’s blinking has slowed; become sluggish. She’s drawn her fist up to her mouth to suck at her thumb in place of the pacifier she’s too tired to demand. He nods to Paul to let him know the change. With story time over, Judith is transferred carefully back into his arms after Paul stands and suddenly Daryl finds himself tasked with putting his niece to bed, something he’s only done once or twice a long while back. It’s really no different now than it was then.

He settles her into the crib as best as he can, carefully laying her next to the elephant blanket he’d found months back and then tucking the larger toy elephant she always flings around closer to her reach, arranging her limbs and making sure there’s nothing around that she might accidentally hurt herself with. Judy’s eyelids flutter the tiniest bit, but she doesn’t try to pull herself out of the sleep her growing body needs, the rest that recovery from her illness will require. The fuzzy blanket he draws up from the edge of the crib to drape over her torso seems to pacify her further. Her blond curls are brushed back when Daryl feels her head for a fever. There isn’t one and by the time he and Paul leave the room, Judith is out like a light.

* * *

 

The sky is an overhang for the road they travel on, the moon a dazzling crescent surrounded by soft pinpricks of starlight. An angry wind whips at their skin and clothes as they speed steadily onward, although it’s more of an after effect to Daryl than he’s used to. He doesn’t like it.

Paul had cornered him inside Aaron’s garage, getting in close to peer inside the boxes labeled _Hilltop_  that Daryl started rummaging through. It was only after they’d shoved their bag to the brim, still not even getting all of the scrap set aside for them inside the limited space, that Paul had shown Daryl the key to his bike-- the one that had been safely tucked away inside his vest pocket.

Daryl knew better than to lunge for it, but that instinct reared its head and before he really knew it he was chasing Paul around the cluttered garage, bumping into shelves and knocking over supplies.

_“Fuck’s sake,”_  he’d growled.

The sudden volume of it had made Paul skitter to his stop, leaving an opening for Daryl to catch him. But rather than grabbing him by the collar and yanking the pilfered key back into his own possession, he’d herded the smaller man towards an empty space against the nearest wall. With the firmness of Daryl’s chest at his front and the unyielding concrete of the wall at his back, Paul had nowhere to run.

Daryl kissed him.

It had been a temptation he couldn’t deny, that he didn’t _have_  to, and Paul had certainly seemed keen in his reciprocation. He’d let Daryl lead him for several beats, chasing the roughness of the mouth cushioning his with single-minded determination. Paul’s beard had left an irritation against the sensitivity around his sparse stubble during their night in the trailer, but it was in no way a deterrent. Quite the opposite.

They’d both been more than a little pleased, not to mention reluctant, when they did finally part.

_“I still have the key.”_

_“I know.”_

_“I can admit I was pretty distracted just then. You could’ve taken it from me. You didn’t.”_

_“I know.”_

_“Maybe you’d be more interested in taking something else?_

_“Don’t push it, man.”_

Paul was driving them home now, carefully and without hurry while Daryl played “pack mule” at his back. He has at least enough resolve to keep his hands on his seat rather than settled somewhere on the smaller man’s welcoming body.

They ride into the wee hours of the morning.

It’s natural for his mind to drift towards what had been happening this time the previous day, when sleep had been shoved to the back burner and their fumbling exploration presented an epiphany that had laid dormant inside them for months.

Paul’s hair tickles his face, still smelling like plumeria. Daryl clutches his seat a little tighter and tries to steer his thoughts in a new direction, like towards Maggie and Glenn and Hilltop’s newest addition.

He taps Paul’s shoulder when the gates appear in the bike’s headlight as a signal to park out front near Alexandria’s cars instead of going all the way around to the side. Daryl squints up at the guard posts to see who’s pulling the levers, shaking his head at Dante trying not to drop his comic. He’s not surprised Sasha could only last for so long without being able to look through her scope.

Paul steps forward first, calling out a question for the sniper. Daryl sticks around long enough to hear that both Maggie and the baby are doing fine, even with the sudden influx of guests, and then he’s passing Paul to enter through the gates of Hilltop with the heavy pack on his back and his trajectory set on a path towards the trailer. He’s got a little something to grab before they meet back up with everyone inside Barrington.

* * *

 

The light in the room is dim, but the atmosphere is flashing with emotion. Bright and unfiltered, bodies swaying around Maggie’s bed like moths to a flame.

Michonne kneels, bare fingers and gloved palm pressing into the mattress, smiling down at the bundled baby cradled in the curve of Maggie’s arm. Rick stands behind her, nodding and chuckling at Glenn’s rambled streams of thoughts. Tara’s not far from the new dad’s side, picking at a tray of food placed beneath the cracked window. Daryl can feel a slight breeze rustle around them, momentarily relieving all the heat brought on by so many bodies breathing.

Enid and Carl are sat in the corner, whispering to each other with their heads close. She’s got Baby Rhee’s bracelet in her hand, waving it around as she tells Carl all about Sasha teaching her how to make one and that maybe the two of them could try to do the same sometime. Daryl doesn’t notice Doctor Carson until he pipes up to answer one of Glenn’s many questions with the patience of a saint. The doctor looks as exhausted as Maggie does, but he smiles at Daryl when they meet eyes and Daryl knows then and there that he’ll be hanging around for hours yet to come, probably leaving Alex in charge of the patients still resting in the infirmary.

Even with all the happenings going on inside this little room, Daryl and Paul’s entrance seems to liven it further.

“Hey, finally!” Glenn exclaims with more energy than it looks like he should have. “Thought you guys got lost.”

“Yeah, well _Jesus take the wheel_ an’ all that.” Turning to Paul, he declares: “It ain’t gonna happen again.”

His little ninja scoffs.

“Oh, come on! I drive just as well as you do, Daryl.”

“You think that’s bad?” Glenn laughs. “I’m pretty sure you can guess the obvious joke he made about _my_  driving skills.”

When Paul’s disapproving gaze locks onto his face, Daryl shrugs and tries to keep neutral, but he’s pretty sure the grins pointed his way mean he’s failed at hiding his shame.

“And you’re one to talk, Dixon,” Tara decides to interject, “Rosita told me you suck at handling a stick. Which, if you think _really hard_  about it--”

“You even capable of that?”

Everyone starts laughing, the more prolonged giggles most likely an effect of Tara’s unfinished joke rather than Daryl’s jab, or more probably a mix of the two. Even Paul joins in, the traitor. Daryl tries not to take it personally, Tara hadn’t, and at least he succeeds in that.

Paul dropping a comforting hand to his forearm helps a little, he supposes. It also reminds him of what he’s holding.

“Here--”

Daryl tosses the stuffed cow he’d grabbed from the trailer, hitting Glenn square in the chest. His arms come up just in time to catch the toy before it can fall to the ground. The expression on his face, for a split seconds, reminds Daryl of a kid; innocent little muscle twitches bearing a resemblance to Carl and Enid sitting in the corner, murmuring to each other about topics of insignificance. But it _only_  lasts for that second because in the next blink Glenn’s grin is turning proud, the cogs in his mind making the connection that this isn’t a gag gift, but something for his _son_. It’s real.

Glenn maneuvers around the foot of the bed in a few short strides and opens his arms to draw Daryl forward. They get a few pats in each before Glenn whirls around, nearly tripping in his eagerness to give Maggie a look at something all-too familiar.

“What do you name a cow? Bessie?”

“We never had one named Bessie,” Maggie corrects, a tease in her sleepy voice. “But Clarabelle? That’s a different story.”

“Speaking of names…” Michonne presses her lips together as if to compose her grin, though it only serves to draw more attention to it. She moves one her hands from the bed to hover over the baby, rubbing of of her fingers carefully over his swaddled chest. “You guys have one for your little man?”

“Now, hold on--” Rick throws his hands up in mock seriousness. “I think we should all give Daryl a fair shot at picking something out, see if he can top Judith’s first name.”

“C’mon, Dad. You really think there’s anything better than _asskicker?”_

“Your kid’s right. But I dunno. Baby Badass? S’good, right?”

The sudden peels of laughter bouncing around has Daryl’s chest rumbling with a silent chuckle of his own.

“Can I get you to write down some of the shit that goes through your head?” Tara requests. “If we ever get out of the apocalypse, I think we’d make bank as completely unoriginal but totally genuine t-shirt makers.”

“I like the alliteration,” Paul adds quietly, nudging Daryl, that one eyebrow raised annoyingly high. “That was a good call.”

“It’s _awesome.”_

It’s hard to decipher if Glenn’s approval is genuine or sarcastic. Either option is amusing for Daryl, but things start to settle into a pensive silence and all eyes seem drawn to Maggie and Glenn’s prolonged stare. They nod one after the other. She sighs.

“Me and Glenn decided a while ago. We weren’t sure, but… now we are. _Hershel._ Hershel Greene-Rhee. That’s his name.”

The silence that follows is unmistakably mournful, each of them delving into the memories they have of the old man they’ll always miss. Paul and Enid only know him from whatever Maggie has shared, Tara from a day when a man she thought she could trust murdered him in front of everyone to see. But the rest of them standing around had been touched by Hershel in some way.

Daryl can see peace in Maggie’s eyes, the knowledge that her father is still with her, in her head and in her heart, in the baby she shifts closer to her chest; the respect in Glenn’s just as well as the weight of Hershel’s legacy resting on his shoulders, far heavier than a watch tucked inside a pocket. The pinch of Rick’s brow betrays the guilt he can’t escape, but the soft set of his mouth shows a quiet reflection of  all the __good__  thoughts about the old man that can’t be ignored. Daryl doesn’t know what his own expression might say, although he figures it’s as carefully set as Michonne’s. She manages to keep her smile through the declaration, the glimmer of wetness on her cheek only intrusive if she allows it to be. She doesn’t.

Daryl finds himself speaking first, strong in spite of the gravel in his throat.

“He’s gonna be as tough as your dad was. Sweet as Beth, too.”

Maggie holds his gaze while she cries, grimacing in her struggle between pain and hope.

“Hey,” Glenn whispers. He drops the cow to the bed, taking her chin in hand. “He will. He _will._ And I bet he’ll be as cute as I am, right?”

Maggie wipes snot from her nose with the back of her hand, cradling the baby -- _Hershel_  -- to keep him steady while her body shakes with laughter. She forces Glenn’s head down to hers so she can press a kiss to the scars on his face.

Daryl licks his cracked lips.

“Bet he’ll be a real handful, too. Was screamin’ like a banshee soon as he popped out.”

“I thought I heard somethin’,” Rick agrees wholeheartedly, winking at Michonne when she turns to scrunch her nose at him, begrudgingly amused.

Doctor Carson is quick to assure the new parents that Hershel’s delivery was as normal as could be. Daryl doesn’t let up.

“Look at him. Gonna be a trouble maker.”

The juxtaposition of his words with Hershel’s eyes blinking blearily, the baby falling in and out of sleep, makes Paul laugh out loud.

“If he spends too much time around you, maybe.”

“Me? You’re the one we gotta watch out for. Probably start teachin’ him your ninja shit as soon as he can walk.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Maggie quips. Glenn looks on in horror. “We can start him young. Jesus can teach him all about knives and and self-defense. There’s no one better.”

“Yeah…” Glenn drawls. “We can talk about this when he’s Enid’s age. Let him poop in peace for a while.”

Maggie shakes her head at her husband’s worry and begins to lift her son up into her arms to form a more proper hold. She smooths her fingers carefully over his plump little cheeks.

“Uncle Daryl and Uncle Jesus are already fightin’ over you, huh? Just wait ‘til you meet Uncle Aaron…”

“Do you wanna hold him?”

Daryl looks up at Glenn’s question and nods after mere seconds of deliberation. _Of course_  he wants to, Hershel would only be a newborn once.

Maggie can’t hide the strain in her face when she tries to sit up, but Glenn’s by her side in a flash, complementing her strength with his own. He starts prattling on with vague instructions when Daryl leans over the bed, sounding like a living textbook with all the facts he’s read but only half of the real know-how. Still, Daryl keeps the zen mood alive by pretending to heed the warnings.

While the room doesn’t go quiet when the baby’s put into Daryl’s arm, __he__  sure does.

Hershel’s head isn’t as lumpy as it was hours prior, appearing more rounded beneath the beanie covering his dark patches of hair. His eyes are still puffy, but they’re open and alert, darting around Daryl’s face in slow passes. A little hand pops out of the blanket, loosened in the passing, revealing tiny fingers that jerk and furl. A pouted mouth starts smacking, then--

_A-choo a-choo a-choo!_

The barely-there sneezes have Hershel flailing against Daryl’s chest, eliciting expected _awes_  from the onlookers.

“Maybe he’s allergic,” Michonne teases. Her chin juts out towards Daryl. “Could be your flea shampoo.”

It’s a joke they’ve had for a long time, but Daryl’s all out of smart remarks for the day. Holding the bundled miracle in his arms steals his words away, reminds him that even if tomorrow’s another day of hell on earth things like __this__  are still possible. Still worth it.

Paul creeps up closer to Daryl, standing at his shoulder to peek around his arm. A surge of warm breath prickles Daryl’s skin and he turns his attention from Hershel trying to suck on his fingers to the side of Paul’s face, the peacefulness of it mesmerizing and sweet. He’s another miracle, though Daryl would never let him know it in so man words. He has no trouble imaging all the Jesus jokes Paul has in reserve.

“I think it’s about time I feed him again. You wanna hold him now or wait until later?”

He chooses now, of course. And as Daryl presses Hershel gently into Paul’s readied embrace, he catches sight of Rick whispering into Michonne’s ear. Daryl knows when Rick nods to him that they’re visit is coming to a close.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Rick says softly, unable to hide the grin that grows the longer his gaze lingers on Glenn and Maggie huddled together on the bed. “It’ll be a couple a days until we send the rest of the vultures. Rosita and Aaron should be back by then. You might see Carol in the meantime, but she’ll probably have the same idea about lettin’ you rest as much as you can-- _while_  you can.”

“If you need anything,” Michonne interjects, “let us know. You’ve got more than enough here, but if there’s anything we can do, we got you.”

Maggie’s __thank you__ and Glenn’s __we miss you guys__  come at the same time, followed by a blur of hugs from all around. Daryl and Glenn take part in them, receiving kisses to their faces from Michonne and hugs nearly equal in strength from Tara and Rick, while Maggie settles more comfortably against the pillows and Paul studies every inch of Hershel’s features like he might be tested on them later.

There’s a quiet, short dispute in the corner where Enid still stands with Carl that ends in the boy’s father giving into his pleas to stay behind. _Just until Rosita and Aaron come by,_ Rick says sternly. And Tara chooses that moment to promise she’ll be back with them, too. No matter how far apart any of them are, they can never remain that way for long.

Daryl fiddles with the cigarettes in his pocket, but the urge to smoke one has completely disappeared. He chooses to stay rather than follow the others out to the gate, circling around Paul, who steps forward to hand the baby off to Maggie with gentle chatter.

Daryl slinks over to the corner Carl and Enid had occupied. The comics they’d left behind are slid away by the toe of his boot to allow himself a spot on the hard floor without disruption.

He’s handed food from the tray by the window when Paul slides down the wall to sit beside him. They slip into their own little world in a snap, Glenn and Dr. Carson aiding Maggie in feeding Hershel just a few steps away fading into a distant haze. Paul twists closer to Daryl, pressing against his side, seeking the closeness they usually refrain from giving into when in the presence of others. It’s a question presented in his posture and in the faint creases of his expression, and so Daryl answers it just as wordlessly.

It’s more than fingertips brushing when they reach into the bowl for pieces of dried fruit. It’s more than ankles crossing over each other, more than heads craned close enough to feel the ghosts of breaths that pass through whispered plans and sunny banter. It’s the _tie_  between them, a bond unfathomable in some ways and serendipitous in others, that makes all those nudges and glances that hold the deepest depths he’s not afraid to explore. Those three words from hours past, new in their delivery but old in their meaning, are repeated through nothing more than their unwavering gazes.

Paul and Daryl go quiet before all the fruit is gone, slouching against the wall and each other. Maggie’s next announcement after nursing her newborn is a pique to both of their interests.

It’s time for a lullaby.

He’d witnessed Maggie singing to her pregnant belly over the last few months, trying to get Glenn into a routine of joining her. Daryl suspected he did just that when they were alone, simply smiling in encouragement instead of joining whenever anyone passed by. But now they had their kid held between them on their bed and with Maggie’s desire to sing Hershel to sleep out in the open, Glenn doesn’t try to object. It’s not an option for him anymore.

“What song?”

She doesn’t answer Glenn right away, looking to Daryl and Paul first with wrinkled brows. She leans into Glenn and after drifting her gaze up towards the ceiling for a stretch of hidden thought, her throat clears.

_“Oh, all the money that e’er I spent, I spent it in good company. And all the harm that e’er I’ve done, alas it was to none but me.”_

Daryl stills.

The song is one he’s heard before, from the edges of a campfire, looking out beyond prison fences with Carol at his side. A stamp on their new home.

Beth’s voice had been soft but assured enough for Daryl to hear in echoes, the song passing through his mind as nothing more than a pleasantry when Maggie had joined her sister. There’d been no time for fun and games, for singing; there’d been no time for anything in some of their minds. Maggie, Glenn, Hershel, and Beth had always thought differently.

_“And all I’ve done for want of wit, to memory now I can’t recall...”_

Maggie’s melody wavers, voice thickening-- not in sorrow, not in joy, but a simple release that you can’t understand until it washes through your own bloodstream. Like with everything she does, she keeps going.

_“So fill to me the parting glass, goodnight and joy be with you all. Oh, all the comrades that e’er I had--”_

_“--are sorry for my going away.”_

She grins through the trembling when Glenn joins her, his voice low enough to get lost behind hers but unyielding in its support. It serves as an unintentional urge for Daryl to seek Paul in a similar way, to search for the clarity in how the younger man watches him so diligently, how he has since the day they met.

He can breathe again.

_“And all the sweethearts that e’re I’ve had would wish me one more day to stay. But since it falls unto my lot, that I should rise and you should not…”_

Daryl’s life had only begun when it ended for so many others. Living never really meant anything to him until the world tried to opt out. But here he is, sitting inside Barrington’s walls at a stable community with Maggie and Glenn and their child safely sat up in bed while a doctor watches over them, with Paul glued to Daryl’s side; all of them still going, refusing to stay knocked down from whatever tried to bury them, and they would for as long as thy were able. _He_  would.

There was no giving up, not then and not now. Not for a Dixon. Not for Daryl. And maybe things were settled now, but that didn't mean they would be forever. They would still lose and gain, sink into sorrow like quicksand and then claw their way back to the top of that hill, with a cop and a king and a farmer's daughter, a samurai and pizza boy, a force of nature and man at war with peace and duty; with a woman who could joke in the face of death and one who could escape her wish for it if only for the sake of a mission, with one who was still learning she could let herself feel more than anger and pain.

With a man called Jesus who was witty and kind, who fought monsters with fists and knives and tried every day not to hide himself from the people who needed him as more than a tool, who gave Daryl what he never knew he wanted until it had already been etched inside his heart by the edge of quirked lips and brilliant eyes and confessions that meant just as much as the actions that followed.

They weren’t ashes. In this world, where they could make anything and be anyone, walk through unimaginable horrors and come out on the other side better for having persevered, they never would be. Because even the people that are gone can’t be forgotten when their ideals have filled the cracks their absence created in the first place. It’s a cycle in and of itself, like time and life, that would keep spinning so long as even _one_ good thing remained. Call it luck or a miracle, but Daryl happened to know a lot of very good things right now ad he would try his best to be one of them.

_“I’ll gently rise and I’ll softly call, goodnight and joy be with you all.”_

Paul drops his head to Daryl’s shoulder -- a flash of that first time hits, in the backseat with Rick at the wheel and _Jesus’s_  body swaying into his own with feigned helplessness -- after having read him like a well-memorized book, settling the two of them as naturally as the morning sun making rays across the bed. Daryl presses his nose into Paul’s hair and inhales everything that smells like home, his lips grazing the forehead tucked against his chin. He shuts his eyes and listens to Maggie’s song.

_“Goodnight and joy be with you all.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Wow. First of all, I'm so so sorry that this took so long to get out. I hadn't expected to have so much trouble with this final chapter/epilogue. I've known for a long time how I wanted it to end, but I just really struggled getting it down. I'm sure the smut had something to do with it (oh geez i'm so embarrassed to be posting that, but it is what it is). I've been through so many highs and lows with it; I loved the idea, hated it as it was coming together, constantly worried, hated it some more, then actually kind of started liking it... Now I'm unsure. But it's done and it's here and I hope with all hopes that you guys can enjoy this and think it was worth the wait, even just a little bit.
> 
> I've been working on this fic for over 9 months now. Can you believe that?? 9 months! This is literally my baby! 9 months of trying to create seasons 7 and 8 of the walking dead with my desus goggles and my happy gloves on. It's been a wild ride and this fic turned out to be a beast-- my word doc says over 200,000 words!! Over 200k words of Desus fic! lol what is my life. I love the show (even when I hate that it hurts me or makes me mad), I love Daryl, I love Paul, and I love this pairing and the fandom surrounding it. I started CYF for myself because Daryl is my favorite character and because I knew what was coming with Glenn and I refused to accept it; I wanted a place I could be happy exploring and that just so happened to surround Desus, who I was really new to when I first started writing this fic. I hadn't intended to post it at first, but the more I got into it the more I wanted to share with other desus shippers and hope you guys could get at least a little of the happiness and fun I was getting while writing. 
> 
> The comments!! Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos. It really means so much when someone takes the time to even just write a sentence in and submit it. I get so happy when I see there's something new in the inbox and seeing what your thoughts are on every chapter, the various moments for Desus but also for the other characters... It's brought me such happiness and excitement and encouragement to keep going. And so now here we are. CYF is over. Finished. And like I said, I hope you enjoyed the final chapter (and that my struggles were not all in vein, haha). Did I mention that this chapter itself is a beast?? Like 20k words! Anyway...
> 
> With whatever s8 brings I'm still currently very much invested in this ship. I've mentioned it before, but I have two options when it comes to what I should write next when I get up the energy. There could be a sequel to CYF, based off of the Whisperer storyline from the comics; or there could be a non-apocalypse, sort of modern day, reimagining AU. Either one has my interest, but I'm just so undecided, so if any of you have a vote than let me know! It would be much appreciated. And what would be even more appreciated are any and all comments you guys might want to leave me on this chapter, one last time. :) I'm excited to see your thoughts here at the end. Also, just THANK YOU all for reading in the first place and for sticking with it/me! <3
> 
> You can always join me on tumblr, as well. I've been sort of on and off the site lately, but still: just-whelmed.tumblr.com.
> 
> Also, shout outs to The Parting Glass as a beautiful song, a beautiful moment from twd history, and a (hopefully) beautiful moment in this chapter. Shout outs to all the people who have left me comments, especially those who have done so with every or nearly every chapter! <3 And shout outs to my best friend who listens to me talk about desus on a daily basis and reads my junk and encourages me always. :D I hope to keep writing Desus, so maybe see you guys soon. (As always, sorry for any and all mistakes. I tried to edit... I suck at reading over the things I write.)

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this fic a few months ago, before the 7x01 premiered. So while it's canon compliant up to 6x16 (and also some of 7x01, 7x02, 7x03) it's mostly a reimagining of season 7. I'm focusing on past things from the show as well as comic storylines, and whatever else that's currently happening while I write that I'm able to fit in. I wasn't originally going to post any of this until I finished the whole story (as of right now, I have 6 out of the predicted 9 finished), but I figured I might as well post since we're upon the midseason finale at this point. I hadn't read any desus fics when I started this, but I've read several since and there are so many good ones... I doubt this can live up to them, but It's something I've been wanting to do so I'll see it through. And I hope some of you can get enjoyment out of it!
> 
> There are probably mistakes, it's hard for me to read over everything again. But let me know what you think! <3


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